


Dogs - A Review

by Teland



Category: DCU (Comics), The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, BDSM, Established Relationship, F/M, First Time, Happy Ending, Humor, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Polyamory Negotiations, Questionable Humor, Romance, Snippets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2020-04-12 11:25:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 48,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19131073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: In which a detailed study of the larger Treville pack is undertaken. For... science?





	1. Greasiness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Houndstar](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Houndstar).



> Houndstar showed me the image I link to below (I would LOVE to know who to credit!), and I immediately thought of this: A series of snippets which would each involve one of the negative qualities, and one or more of the pack-members. I have *not* finished, but the snippets are, for the most part, only loosely interconnected. They can be read, I believe, out of order -- and they are, more or less, each standalones. 
> 
> Ten are complete. More will come as time passes and psych drugs do their thankless work.
> 
> Much love and gratitude to the usual suspects -- I promise my sense of humor doesn't get *worse* than this? Probably?

Laurent raises an eyebrow high. "Are we agreed, gentlemen?"

Reynard winces. 

Kitos does a *remarkable* job of making himself look smaller than he actually is. The fact that the man is over six and a half feet tall, however, means that his efforts are, usually, wasted. 

Like now. "Gentlemen." 

Reynard winces *harder* -- 

Kitos shifts on his feet -- 

"I -- sir..." Reynard gives Laurent a pleading look which he is absolutely certain *Treville* responds to by surrendering absolutely everything, including honour. 

Kitos clears his throat like musketfire and *also* pleads, nut-brown eyes widening and deepening and -- this all means that the situation is truly dire. But... 

Laurent already knew that. He raises his eyebrow higher. 

And waits. 

And *waits* -- 

And Kitos laughs like *cannonfire*. "Shit, fox-face, we're not getting out of this one --" 

"*Merde* --" 

Kitos laughs even more explosively --

Laurent crosses his arms over his chest -- 

"Fuck -- s'il vous plait, *sir*, do not make us *do* this!" 

And Laurent -- makes a decision. "We will be doing it *together*, gentlemen. *Brothers*." 

Reynard blinks rapidly -- 

Kitos stares -- 

And both of them smile as broadly and brightly as they would if -- 

If Laurent had announced they'd been freed from some especially onerous punishment detail. Possibly one which had to be undertaken while in range of enemy fire, at night, in the middle of a blizzard. 

Laurent tries, very hard, not to smile. 

"You're looking right evil over there, brother," Kitos says. 

"Nonsense," Laurent says, and adjusts his leathers unnecessarily. "I'm merely focused on our tasks." 

They frown at him... adorably. 

Laurent swallows a cooing sigh and details his plans -- they *will* get Treville bathed today, and at *least* every other day *after* this, barring emergency. And -- 

"You are *certain* about this, sir?" 

"I am, and *you* are, as well, Reynard," Laurent says. 

"I --" 

"You are, because you have noticed certain difficulties when trying to seduce young women when Treville has been with you on days when he *hasn't* been drenched in one rainstorm or another. And, even then --" 

"Merde, we've gotten *used* to his -- his --" 

"Reek?" And Kitos's bushy eyebrows are up. 

Reynard's gesture is both complicated and graceful. "I was going to say -- *bouquet* --" 

Kitos *thunders* laughter -- "What the hell kind of flowers do they *grow* in the Perigord?" 

"To be fair, freres, he *does* always wash his cock." 

Laurent blinks -- 

Kitos pauses -- 

They *look* at Reynard -- 

But Reynard is blushing and checking his weapons and asking them -- fervently, if silently -- to leave that. 

Kitos turns to share a look with *him* -- 

It's always such a *thrill* when his little brothers *do* that -- 

And Laurent can take the gift as it's meant to be taken, and promise with his eyes to remember this moment against a future when it can be used to *help* his brothers... somehow. 

Kitos nods and checks his own weapons -- 

And then they leave Laurent's office together -- and this is another gift; it's *rare*, these days, when Laurent can leave the garrison *with* his brothers -- and move for the stables, where Kitos and Reynard had left Treville commiserating with his Eventreur over the minor wounds the horse had picked up in their last action, and flirting with the stableboys. 

And... it's an interesting question. 

Hm. 

"You're thinking on something hard, brother," Kitos says, with a warm, inviting grin. There has never been anything about Kitos that wasn't *fundamentally* warm, fundamentally *beautiful*, but -- 

He had a question. "I... it was my understanding that Treville was -- *is* -- *exceedingly* sexually active..." 

Kitos and Reynard laugh very hard, indeed -- 

Treville would say that they're laughing 'like arseholes'. 

Laurent never, ever would. 

Reynard coughs himself back to something resembling sobriety, olive-green eyes alight. "You are, perhaps, wondering how he manages this...? With his... bouquet?" 

"*Reek*." 

"It has a certain tangy piquancy, verrat, you must admit this --" 

Kitos laughs even harder -- 

And Laurent hums. "I am, indeed, wondering just that, Reynard."

"Notre meneur..." And Reynard's gaze is inner-focused and utterly admiring. Loving. "He has a *gift* for choosing the boys who will *grind* their pretty little faces into his armpits, into his groin --" 

"That's *right*, he does," Kitos says, with an admiring sigh of his own. "After they first *pretend* to be offended by it all." 

"Ah, oui, oui! And make a fuss! Notre meneur likes that best of all."

And Laurent is blushing -- he can't *help* that -- but... 

But it's all bringing back memories, isn't it. 

Memories of being *fixated* on his most beautiful recruits, his most *chaos*-inducing and talented and brilliant -- 

But Kitos -- when he was Honore -- always made love behind closed doors. Laurent had never been able to *see*.

Treville had always had a far more laissez-faire attitude toward public sexuality, and that -- 

Oh, Laurent had learned every alley he'd favoured for assignations, every shadowy *corner* -- 

He'd learned... so much. 

"Uh... sir? Did we just hack you off?" 

Laurent blinks -- 

Realizes what expressions must have been on his *face* -- 

He *fixes* that and *focuses* -- they're nearly to the stables. "Not at all, brothers. I was... lost in the past for long moments." 

"Mais... it upset you?" And Reynard is searching him closely, carefully -- 

Kitos is studying him more cautiously -- 

And Laurent recognizes, in this moment, an opportunity. 

To be honest, or *more* honest. 

To be intimate -- 

To offer -- 

He smiles, instead of anything more brave or true. "I don't always have the best control over my emotions, brothers." And then he gestures, with a *hint* of a flourish, to the stables -- 

Kitos laughs -- "Oh, *really*, sir?" 

"Ah, oui, verrat! Notre capitaine is feeling his *oats*!" 

"We'd best not get him *too* excitable, fox-face --" 

"Get *who* excitable?" And that was Treville, he's walking out of the stables to meet them -- 

*His* eyes are bright, thrilled -- and wild. 

So much wilder than they ever were when he was a *boy*, and sometimes Laurent just wants to *shake* the man and interrogate him *brutally* -- 

How could you think I wouldn't know you'd been through some great change? 

How could you think I wouldn't know you'd been given some great *power*? 

How could you -- 

But... but. 

Treville had *eventually* shared with them -- with all of them -- the truth of what the *All-Mother* -- his *goddess* -- had given to him when he was seventeen years old -- 

Treville had shared with them and honestly expected them to turn *away* -- 

Laurent had, instead, done his best to make certain that he would have a regiment *fit* for his very best men -- his *brothers* -- sooner rather than later. 

But, in this moment -- 

With Treville looking at *him* with so much surprise and thrill and curiosity -- 

With Treville obviously wondering *why* Laurent has *joined* their other brothers -- 

Laurent nods once. "I believe..." He licks his lips. He will not let himself swallow this statement. "I believe that all of *you* believe that I left you behind when I became the Captain," he says, and raises an eyebrow as pointedly as he can. 

Reynard blinks -- 

Kitos stares -- 

And Treville -- grins, bright and broad. Bright and *wild* -- 

His *tongue* is peeking -- 

And he *smells* just as wild as he looks. The desire to strap Treville down and interrogate him about everything the dog in him may or may not desire is no more powerful than the desire to strap Treville down and scrub him. 

There's something reassuring about that. Laurent gestures for them to mount, even though they're not actually *in* the stables, yet -- 

"Oh -- shit. Eventreur's not --" 

"You'll take my Pasiphae, brother. *I'll* take Thetis." 

"The *bull*-fucker?" 

Reynard splutters -- 

"The *godly*-bull-fucker, little brother --" 

Kitos thunders laughter -- "Bloody hell, you two! Where are we *going*?" 

"My own rooms, brother. They're closest." 

"Merde, I always feel as though I will offend your chambermaids if I *look* at them too warmly, Laurent." 

Laurent grins helplessly -- it always takes far too long to *get* Reynard to call him by his Christian name. "The answer is simple, brother," he says, and leads them into the stables -- 

The boys rush to prepare their horses -- 

"Ah, oui? What is it?" 

"Blind yourself with one of Marie-Angelique's brooches once we arrive -- I'll find one she isn't especially fond of --" 

Treville chokes -- 

Kitos quiets his usual cannonfire in respect for the horses -- 

Reynard stares at him -- 

"Once you've done that," Laurent says, and tugs on his riding gloves, "you should be sure to stay rigidly in one position for the *entire* time you spend in my rooms, lest you accidentally touch the flesh -- however modestly covered -- of one of my employees --" 

Kitos is wheezing -- 

Treville *whacks* him on the back -- 

And Reynard holds up a finger. "I..." 

"Mm?" 

Reynard laughs quietly and shakes his head as he mounts his Josephine. "Mon frere, I have missed you *very* much while you have been shut up in that little box. That is *all*." 

And that...

A part of Laurent only wants to interrogate *that*, only wants to point out that Reynard had gotten all too little time to get to know *Laurent*, the *true* Laurent, before he'd been promoted to Captain. 

Reynard hadn't *been* one of Laurent's boys -- 

Laurent had recruited him as an *adult*. And, while *he* had immediately regretted every day they hadn't spent together, every hour they hadn't *trained* together -- 

Laurent knows perfectly well that other people need more time. 

Always. 

"Laurent...?" 

But he's staring again -- almost certainly *glaring* again -- and... that is never correct. "My brothers," he says, and mounts his mild, loving, royalty-placating Thetis -- "I have missed *myself*." 

Treville rides up beside him immediately. "All the more reason to get you out of here more *often*, brother." 

"That's *right*," Kitos says, and rides up behind Laurent on his Hestia. "We'll consider it our sacred duty, like." 

"Ah, oui, oui. There is no time to waste on -- on..." 

Laurent grins and rides out into the -- night, not evening. He has kept his brothers *late* for this. "The safety and security of our reigning monarch and nation, brother?" 

"C'est ça." 

Treville pulls on a mock-judicious face and nods sagely -- 

Kitos's laugh is no more scandalized than it *should* be -- he's always been just a *little* more conservative than the rest of them, at his heart -- 

But, of course, he can always be seduced. "Kitos..." 

"Mm? What can I do for you, brother?" 

Laurent hums helplessly. "I'll be taking a holiday soon --" 

"You'll be doing bloody *what*?" And Treville is looking at him as if Laurent had said something... precisely as strange as he had. 

Laurent sighs and smiles ruefully. "The Queen-Regent... suggested I do so most strenuously, brothers." 

The mutters -- and louder ejaculations -- that follow that are more than a little treasonous. Laurent does his duty as their Captain and pretends not to hear them until they become *too* loud -- 

At which point he clears his throat -- 

"*Laurent* -- *frere* --" 

"Tell us true, brother, do you think she plans to -- to --" 

"She will *not* bloody *replace* you," Treville growls, low and flat -- 

And Laurent holds up a hand. "No, she won't. She agreed with me -- rather bad-naturedly -- that there was not, yet, anyone remotely qualified to take my position. This disagreement rather fueled, I believe, her need for me to take a holiday as soon as humanly possible." 

There's a pause -- 

A lengthy pause -- 

And then Kitos thunders laughter -- 

His Hestia sighs -- 

Pasiphae and Thetis, who are, sadly, no longer unaccustomed to such things, toss their heads just a little -- 

Laurent and Treville calm them -- 

"Sorry, sorry, I -- of bloody *course* you started an argument with the bloody Queen-*Regent* while she was dressing you *down*." 

"She was demonstrably incorrect on several points, brothers --" 

This sets Kitos off again, as Laurent had known it would, and Laurent is smiling as he cossets and soothes his Thetis. At this rate, she'll be accustomed to Kitos soon enough -- 

And Treville is giving him a sharply wry look, just as if he could *hear* any number of Laurent's thoughts, or at least deduce them. 

Those looks have always been a goad. Always... 

They're another *several* reasons to shake the man, really. 

Why don't you know I'm in love with you? 

Why don't you know I would do literally *anything* -- 

You know everything *else* -- 

But he's never said that, and -- 

And he doesn't think he ever will, short of Marie-Angelique finally growing impatient enough with his rank *cowardice* to -- 

Treville cuffs his arm. "What's going on, brother?" 

Laurent takes a breath. "An unpleasant thought; it doesn't bear repeating." 

"That's it, you know. That, right there," Kitos says quietly. 

Laurent blinks. "Kitos...?" 

"Frere... this is how you take yourself away from us when you are *not* simply closing the door of your office," Reynard says, and Laurent can *feel* him raising his eyebrows. 

Laurent swallows and -- he can't help it. He looks to Treville. 

Treville smiles wryly and tips his hat, insouciant and sharp and -- so beautiful. But -- "They're right, brother. And we all have our ways of imposing distance --" 

You don't *bathe* -- 

"-- but we all know none of them are *right*," Treville says, and *looks* at him -- 

*Pins* him with a look, and -- 

And. 

Laurent licks his lips. "Does this mean you will -- all -- consent to being called on all the things you do to keep yourselves apart?" And he does not take his gaze from Treville's, despite the fact that they're riding through Paris at *night* -- 

Treville takes a sharp breath -- 

Kitos and Reynard laugh *nervously* -- 

More is needed. "Because I -- I consent with all of myself," Laurent says, and feels Thetis, the earth, the spheres -- everything disappears but his brothers, and their close and brilliant and *sharp* attention. "I will not be apart from you anymore." 

"Dieu..." 

Treville lifts his chin. "What were you thinking, just then. Before we started down *this* road." 

"That I would be lost if Marie-Angelique ever grew *truly* impatient with my cowardice --" 

"Your -- what? What do you --" 

"Specifically, little brother, my cowardice with regards to my feelings for you, Kitos, and Reynard -- and how that cowardice has kept both me *and* her apart from all of you. More apart than..." Laurent growls. "I fear we must discuss this further when we arrive. But did that suit for a beginning, little brother?" 

Treville is -- staring at him. 

A part of Laurent wants only to fill in the thoughts he can imagine Treville thinking, the truncated conversations he can imagine Treville *remembering* -- 

The dawning *comprehension* -- 

Treville is *blushing* -- 

But Laurent must not *assume*. "Does it *suit*." 

"*Yes*, brother," Treville says, and his pulse is pounding in his throat -- 

He turns to scan their perimeter -- 

Kitos clears his throat -- "Uh... brother..." 

"Yes, Kitos...?" 

"*All* of us?" 

Laurent smiles with relish. "*All* of you." 

Reynard mutters a garbled prayer -- "Ah. Is Marie-Angelique...?" 

Treville blinks -- and blushes more. 

Laurent hums. "She quite enjoys taking charge of our Paris household, brothers. She believes it's a far more manageable size." 

"Right, but, brother --" And Kitos thunders a *nervous* laugh -- 

Laurent represses a truly reprehensible smile. "Yes...?" 

"You lads have to realize how self-satisfied our brother is getting up here," Treville says, and shakes his head. "He's *planned* this. For *ages*." 

"We *know* that, meneur! We just didn't realize how many *things* he'd planned!" 

Kitos laughs *harder* -- 

Laurent surrenders to the inevitable and grins. Marie-Angelique will be surprised that he'd *managed* this degree of honesty, but -- 

But she will be pleased, and so will his *brothers*. 

*That* is, by far, the most important thing. 

~

"Right, brother, you've got some more talking to do," Treville says, disarming himself quickly and neatly in Laurent's armory. 

Laurent is already finished with that -- 

"You certainly do!" Kitos booms -- he's finished, too -- 

Reynard is slowest -- he can't seem to stop himself from looking around and around for Marie-Angelique. 

Laurent hums and cups his shoulder. "Marie-Angelique prefers to take a short, refreshing nap at this time of day --" 

"Ah, oui? Mais -- this is only reasonable. *You* are usually still at the garrison." 

"Right, right," Kitos says. "We'll not wake her." 

Treville grunts. "Did you want to wait the serious talk until she could be there for it?" 

That... Laurent smiles ruefully. "Yes and no," he says, and checks -- Reynard is disarmed. "Come with me, all of you." 

"Absolutely, brother," Kitos says. "Lead us deeper into your den of sin --" 

"Ah, oui, and iniquity --" 

"And *filth*," Treville says, with relish that makes Laurent's cock thicken with the need to -- 

Many things. Many, many -- 

Some of them still include scrubbing him, though, so Laurent still feels like a reasonable human being. He hums to himself in an attempt to *quiet* the parade of images and possibilities -- 

"Frere..." 

"Yes, Reynard?" 

"Is this... do you *always* hum when you are trying not to think of making love?" 

Oh, dear. 

His brothers are looking *dangerously* thoughtful -- 

Treville, especially, has the look of a man *poring* over his memories -- 

"There are times when I hum merely for the pleasure --" 

"*Oh*, no, brother," Kitos says, and he's booming more quietly again. "You hum to *distract* yourself. Just *admit* it." 

Laurent -- blushes. And bites the tip of his tongue. And -- "I admit it." 

"Bloody *hell*," Treville says, and *looks* at him. 

"Marie-Angelique... she knows *all* of this about you," Reynard says, with the air of a man firming a point in his mind. 

"Everything. Absolutely everything," Laurent says, and leads them up the stairs. 

"Including -- well. *She* wants this," Kitos says. "*This*. *All* of us." 

Laurent closes his eyes as he jogs, smiling as he remembers her cries, her moans, her shouts -- "Oh, yes." 

Treville *yips* -- 

Laurent *opens* his eyes, and raises an eyebrow at his little brother, who is tugging at his collar. "Are you quite all right --" 

Treville yips again -- 

Coughs -- 

Kitos whacks him on the *back* -- 

Treville trips *up* several stairs -- "*Berk* -- I -- ah --" 

"Not to worry, brother," Kitos says to *him*. "Basset's just nervous because he hasn't put it to a woman in -- hunh. How many years *has* it been?" 

"Fuck fuck fuck --" 

Reynard laughs *hard* -- 

And Laurent knuckles at his moustache to hide a smile -- no, more is needed. "I did have *something* in mind which could make the rest of the evening... easier for you, little brother." 

Treville stops dead on the stairs. 

Kitos picks him up, throws him over one magnificently broad shoulder, and continues to jog. "You were saying, brother?" 

"I -- I -- *berk* --" 

"Well, you and Reynard know already --" 

"Ah! Oui, oui, c'est vrai --" 

"Yeah, true --" 

"What -- what the bloody -- what are you *talking* --" 

"Shut it, Fearless, it's for your own good," Kitos says -- 

"And the good of the *regiment*," Laurent say --

"And the good of the many pretty little boys of *France*," Reynard says --

Treville growls and -- stops. "No. Oh, no. You're planning to bloody *bathe* me?" 

"As a prelude to a light meal and then, perhaps, other sorts of refreshments entirely," Laurent says, and -- 

It stops Treville. 

His eyes are wide -- and wild. 

He licks his *lips* -- 

He's staring at *nothing* as they jog through the halls -- or, perhaps, at thoughts and fantasies of how this night can proceed -- 

But then he snarls and twists free of Kitos's powerful grip *easily*, landing on his feet more like a *cat* than a dog -- 

"Buggering *fuck*, Fearless, go *easy*!" 

But Treville only looks at him. "I don't agree to this, *sir*." 

That -- cuts. And -- and, perhaps, the point of this night is to let that show, to -- 

No, more. 

More. "That wounded me," Laurent says, quietly and formally. "Perhaps as much as you meant it to." 

Treville rears *back* -- 

Shudders -- 

Turns *away*. "I think I should go. I'm not fit company tonight." 

That -- no -- *no* -- 

"What -- bloody --" *Kitos* growls and smacks the back of Treville's head -- 

Treville only winces. "Case in point --" 

"*Meneur*," Reynard says, pulling a blade from the 'hidden' sheath they all pretend Laurent doesn't know about when he is in Laurent's homes and shoving Treville against the *wall*. The blade is dimpling Treville's *throat* -- 

And Treville blinks twice before raising his eyebrows. "Brother. You don't think this is a *little* --" 

"You have injured our Laurent's spirit on *purpose*. You have ripped yourself out of our verrat's *arms*. You have --" Reynard snarls, and now the blade is dimpling the flesh beneath Treville's eye. "How will you do it, mm? How will you reject *me*."

For a moment, Treville looks truly horrified, as if Reynard has asked him to do something anathemic to his entire *existence*, but -- then he squeezes his eyes *shut* --

"*Meneur* --" 

"I'll do it," Treville says, stiffening all over and sounding like he's agreeing to his own painful *death* -- he opens his eyes, and smiles ruefully. "I'll do it, and I -- I apologize," he says, and looks to all of them. "For everything -- just. For everything." 

Reynard frowns, and doesn't immediately stand down. 

*Kitos* frowns -- "You sound like you're apologizing for shit you haven't *done* yet, Fearless." 

Treville's expression is -- terrible. 

It's technically a smile, but it's old, and harsh, and full of far too much *pain*, and -- Laurent can't stand aside. Not for this. 

He brushes Reynard's hands aside -- they've gone weak with shock -- and he cups Treville's shoulder, close to his strong throat. "Little brother. I would like for you to remember that you're with no one save your brothers, who love you for precisely who you are --" 

"I -- I'm not --" 

"-- and *not* for the person you have tried to pretend to be in order to make yourself feel... cleaner." And Laurent raises an eyebrow. 

Treville gives him a *dumbfounded* look -- 

And Kitos smacks the side of his head. "What he means to say, you *arse*, is that we already know at least ninety-nine to one hundred per cent of your secrets --" 

"You bloody *don't* --" 

Laurent turns Treville back to face *him*. "We fear nothing but losing you. *Nothing*." 

"That's *right*, you arsehole --" 

"And if you do not learn this *quickly*, cheri... then." And Reynard shudders and licks his lips. "Then, peut-etre, we will not have been the best of brothers." 

Kitos grunts -- 

Treville blinks several times -- 

And Laurent nods once. "He is absolutely correct, little brother," Laurent says, and -- gives himself permission to caress Treville's cheek before stepping back slightly. "Now come with us, and let us care for you. The way we've longed to." 

Treville takes a *hitching* breath -- 

Another -- 

"You could let me do it myself --" 

Kitos laughs hard. "We've *tried* that, you arse." 

"I -- I'll do it better --" 

Reynard shakes his head slowly and tucks his blade away. "You have told us *many* stories of your parents' vicious old chatelaine Marceline --" 

"*Fuck* --" 

"Ah, yes," Laurent says, tugging Treville away from the wall and giving him a *gentle* push toward the guest suite he'd set aside for this purpose. "I remember those stories quite well..." 

"What was that, Basset? 'Scrubbed you black and blue'?" 

"Fuck fuck -- you don't have to -- I was just out in a bloody *storm* --" 

They all laugh for that -- and push him faster. 

And they're there, and Laurent's staff is precisely as well-trained as they should be, though it helps that he'd sent runners once he'd known *roughly* when he'd be able to leave today. 

The *large* tub is waiting for them, and steaming, and there are *several* basins waiting on and near the hearth, as well as stacks of linens and far more soap than they'll need. 

Laurent nods in approval. 

Kitos rubs his great hands together with relish and moves the linens and extra soap out of what will undoubtedly be their blast-range.

*Reynard*... is already stripping Treville, who appears to have left them all for the fastnesses of his own mind. 

It makes Laurent lonely. 

It makes Laurent think of the days -- the *first* days -- when he would separate Treville from Honore, and drag him back to his quarters, or his tent, and Treville would pull on a *coat* of stoicism -- 

Until Laurent began to interrogate him. That...

Yes. "Strip him faster, Reynard --" 

Treville *coughs* --

"*Merde* --" 

Kitos thunders again -- 

And Laurent paces around them all. "Treville." 

"I -- am listening," Treville says, and there's a moderately scandalized laugh under his words that brings Laurent back to his crowded tent -- 

His dim and crowded quarters -- 

The scents of Treville's sweat -- and *spend*, when he would *masturbate* -- 

Laurent knows, in this moment, that *Treville* recognizes the sounds of Laurent beginning to think of interrogation. 

It's warm. 

It's *heady* -- "Treville..." 

"I'm *absolutely* listening -- and being stripped like an *infant* --" 

"Oh, non, non, meneur. Notre Laurent, he would never let an infant get so *filthy*." 

"That's *right*," Kitos says, and tests the water in the tub with one finger -- he nods in approval to Laurent -- 

Laurent nods back. "Treville," Laurent says, one more time. "Is it your dog who keeps you from bathing regularly...?" 

"Bloody *yes*. You all *know* this -- and this is bloody *animal* abuse -- *ow* --" 

Kitos smacks him a second time for good measure -- 

"Treville. What does your dog have to say when your many *unpleasant* scents keep you from being able to *mount* as many people as you would *like* to mount." 

"The dog thinks humans are too bloody -- stop *yanking* on -- too bloody *choosy* --" 

"Why do you wash your cock and balls?" 

"Because I can't *lick* myself -- as much as I want to -- *look* --" 

"Yank his trousers and breeches down, Reynard." 

"*Hey* --" 

But Reynard obeys without a word, leaving Treville *mostly* nude -- 

Blushing *and* flushed -- 

Silent -- 

And partially erect. 

Laurent nods. "Finish stripping him," he says, and moves around behind them all. 

Watches the back of Treville's *neck* -- 

Watches the flush grow *deeper* -- "Treville... what does your dog have to say about this...?" 

Silence. 

Silence. 

Silence -- and Reynard and Kitos are sharing looks, and sharing looks with *him*. 

Laurent nods again. "The dog has no objections to this whatsoever. Does he." 

Silence -- but Treville is growing too stiff. 

Too -- shamed. 

Laurent moves back around to face them all. "Kitos, place him in the tub." 

"Anything you say, brother," he says, and lifts and places Treville with gentle, loving care -- 

Treville shudders -- 

Shudders *violently* -- 

He is much, *much* harder...

"Let me do this myself," he says -- mutters, truly. 

"No," Laurent says. "Tell me when you became attracted to me." 

"*Dieu* --" 

Kitos is staring at him with wide, wide eyes -- 

And Treville is panting, tongue out...

"No, little brother...?" 

"Let me do this --" 

"Reynard. Grasp his cock and *stroke*." 

"*Merde* --" 

"I will not let either one of you deny that you want just that -- and far, far more than that," Laurent says, and steps closer to the tub. 

"Merde merde -- fuck, s'il te plait, meneur, I --" And Reynard's hand is shaking as he wraps it around Treville's hard cock -- but only for a moment before he *grips*. 

Laurent nods -- 

And Kitos thunders. "That's not going to get him any cleaner, brother! Fuck, I've wanted to do just that, though," he says, and turns to Laurent. "And *you* knew that perfectly well." 

"From the time he explained buggery *to* me, brother," Laurent says, and nods to the panting, straining, *staring* Treville. "It was a very illuminating evening." 

Another thunder -- "Well, are you going to breathe, Fearless? Answer a question or two?" Kitos turns back to him. "Which of us is scrubbing where? I mean, since fox-face has that doggy cock taken care of." 

"I -- I -- *merde*. I can't believe --" And Reynard growls and starts to *stroke*, fast and brutally *hard* -- 

Fast and -- precisely the way Treville always stroked himself when they were together in Laurent's quarters. 

Of course Reynard would know -- 

Of course -- 

But Treville throws his head back and *barks* -- 

*Grips* the edge of the tub -- 

"Oh, look at that... ask him more questions, brother. I *need* to hear him talk," Kitos says, and dampens a linen -- 

"I do, as *well*," Reynard says. "S'il te plait, maintenant, s'il te --" 

"Treville. Head *up*." 

Treville barks again and *obeys* -- but. 

"Eyes *open*," Laurent says, and -- doesn't let himself pace. He stands... right there. 

And watches his little brother obey.

And watches Reynard *stroke* and moan and -- 

And watches Kitos *caress* Treville with the linen, caress him everywhere those long arms can *reach* -- 

Treville is shaking and *crooning* -- 

Laurent smiles. "I've wanted this, little brother..." 

Treville *yips* -- and it's a question. 

They *all* know it is -- "I've wanted *just* this -- as well as any number of other scenes and scenarios where all of us -- and Marie-Angelique -- could come together and make love with each other. And now you know that *all* of us have wanted it. Don't you." 

Treville shudders and *arches* -- 

"*Answer* me." 

"Yes! *Yes*! *Please*!" 

Laurent nods. "Good boy. And you are my good boy, aren't you? *Our* good boy." 

"Fuck --" 

"*Answer*." 

"*Laurent* --" 

"Reynard. *Stop*." 

Reynard whimpers and *obeys* -- 

Laurent comes over with *gooseflesh* for that -- but he can keep his control. 

He *must* keep his -- 

He *will* keep his control. He moves closer, just the same. "Treville. Do you understand that you will be *punished* when you do not follow *orders* *promptly*." 

Treville stares *wildly* -- 

His pulse is *hammering* in his throat -- 

Kitos is still *washing* him -- but. 

Laurent had not ordered him to stop. He must -- he must remember that. Laurent wets his lips. "Treville. You must think for me now. Do you *understand*." 

"I -- I -- I have to be *punished*, Laurent --" 

"*When* do you have to be punished." 

"When I disobey!" 

And that... "Little brother. Do you *wish* to be punished?" 

Treville shudders and croons more -- and his cock jerks *violently*. "Please. I. Please." 

Laurent -- cannot restrain a shiver. "By which of us, little brother." 

Treville pants -- 

And pants -- 

And then Kitos strokes down beneath the surface of the water, down and down until he's cupping Treville's balls in the linen in his hand -- 

And Kitos *and* Reynard look to *him* -- 

"Answer me, little brother," Laurent says, and keeps his voice as -- even as he can. He cannot manage calm. 

"You're. You're so aroused, and I." Treville swallows with a *hard* click, arching up and *offering* himself -- 

A part of Laurent is only giddy, *cursing* -- "You must answer in *words*." 

Treville gasps -- and his grin is almost loose, almost *easy* as he sinks back down in the tub. "Yes, of course, brother. Sometimes... sometimes the fantasies get... out of control. I dream of all of you. Having me --" 

"*How*." 

"In every possible --" Treville swallows again. "There are no limits. The limits -- the *idea* of limits -- would hurt more than... anything else." 

Laurent growls -- stops. "More." 

Treville pants. "I dream of you most of all, brother. When I'm dreaming of being punished. Disciplined. *Hurt*." 

This time the growl won't stop when he wants it to -- no. No. He can. 

He is *able* -- 

And he will. 

"Why did you hide this from us?" 

Treville closes his *eyes* -- but only for a moment. "I thought I couldn't have it. I thought I wasn't -- worth it." 

"Kitos, *grip* his balls." 

"Happily, brother," Kitos says, and obeys -- 

So -- 

Treville *howls* -- 

His long, thick, *entirely* canine cock jerks and jerks and *spits* slick -- 

"Fuck..." 

"You shouldn't have thrown your head back like that, Fearless," Kitos says *conversationally*. "You missed your slick spattering Reynard's *cheek* --"

"HNH --" 

Kitos thunders a laugh and squeezes *harder* -- 

"*Please*!" 

"*This* is the real reason you haven't let us convince you to bathe," Laurent says. "You needed a way to keep us at a distance from you, so that an unguarded moment wouldn't reveal your *secrets*." 

"Fuck fuck *fuck* --" 

"*Answer*." 

"I'm also a filthier animal than the dog inside me! Brother! I promise!" 

Kitos blinks -- 

Reynard stares -- 

"Are you saying that you and the dog are *both* dogs? Two *separate* dogs with entirely different attitudes toward cleanliness?" 

"Yes! Please! Please let me spend!" 

"Elaborate on this first." 

"Oh, *fuck* --" 

Kitos's laugh could demolish a Spanish fort -- 

Reynard is *tasting* Treville's slick slowly and with great care -- 

And Laurent smiles. "Do go on, little brother." 

"I -- I -- *fuck*. I wanted to be apart! I wanted to -- to -- if none of you came close, then I was *safe*. *Mostly* safe. I know how to keep my big mouth *shut* --" 

"Sometimes," Kitos says. 

"Oui, oui, some of the time," Reynard says, and slurps his fingers. 

Treville *croons* as his cock spasms -- "I -- I just also really like *rolling* in things! Things that stink! A lot! And -- sweaty clothes and sheets are comforting when you're alone! And --" 

"What does the *dog* say about the time you spend *alone*, little brother." 

"To *stop* it, but -- I didn't know I *could*!" 

"We fell down on the job there, brother," Kitos says. 

Laurent shudders. "We truly did. And we have *all* paid dearly for that. Have we learned our lessons, brothers?" 

"*Yes* --" 

"Bloody buggering *fuck*, yes --" 

"*Oui* --" 

"*Good*," Laurent says. "Stroke his cock once more, Reynard. Kitos, *pump* his balls -- and kiss his *throat*." 

"Not... his mouth?" 

"Not yet, brother," Laurent says. "I need his sounds. I need them..." Laurent takes a shuddering breath, and for a moment cannot think, cannot breathe, cannot *speak* around the need that takes him -- 

But then it all makes perfect sense, because Marie-Angelique has joined them, and her hair is loose and unpinned, and she is only in her dressing gown and whatever secrets she has beneath it, and she is cupping him *firmly* through his trousers --

"Oh. Shit..." 

Marie-Angelique's laugh is low, and sweet, and utterly evil. "I believe my husband made his orders quite clear, Kitos..." 

"That he did, mum!" And he turns immediately to *batten* on Treville's throat. 

Reynard, for his part, needs just another moment to *focus* on Marie-Angelique's small, soft, *working* hand -- 

Laurent understands that with *all* of himself -- 

And, soon enough, Treville is barking and yipping and *thrashing* in the tub, bucking into Reynard's fist -- 

*Stopping* himself when he obviously remembers Kitos's *grip* -- 

Bucking again when the pleasure grows too great -- 

*Writhing* -- 

Laurent is so *hard* -- 

"Do you want to flog him, husband...?" 

"For hours at a time, wife," Laurent says, and lifts her *free* hand to his mouth for a kiss, a lick, a *vicious* bite -- 

His brothers moan and *curse* -- 

Treville's cock *spits* slick --

And Marie-Angelique gasps and presses herself, her wonderful *softness*, to Laurent more firmly -- 

Her scents rise even under all the scents of leather and gunpowder and water and soap and *partially*-washed Treville -- 

"Do you want Kitos to use his mouth on you like that, wife...?" 

Kitos *grunts* -- 

"Perhaps more firmly than that..." 

Kitos growls, grips Treville by the back of the head, and *bites* his throat -- 

Treville goes *rigid* --

"Dieu, Dieu --" And Reynard bends over the side of the tub and takes the pointed tip of Treville's cock into his mouth, sucking hard, sucking *needily* -- 

"I've wanted that," Marie-Angelique says, soft and carrying at once -- 

Treville howls desperately, loudly, so -- 

So perfectly *animal* -- 

He's *shoving* into Reynard's mouth -- 

The motions look *helpless* -- 

Laurent can't keep himself from biting Marie-Angelique's *wrist* -- 

She makes a soft, needful *sound* -- 

Treville's spend spills out of the corner of Reynard's mouth -- 

Drips to the water -- 

Laurent *wants* -- 

Reynard tries to take *more* of Treville's cock even though he's also *coughing* -- 

"Ah, fuck, Laurent, you have to let me kiss him *now*," Kitos says -- 

And Laurent can breathe, if not quite think -- "Do it, let me see --" 

And Kitos kisses him hard, kisses him sweetly, kisses him back against the tub, cradles him and caresses him, makes *love* to him -- 

And Marie-Angelique bites *his* -- fist. His *clenched* fist, and -- hm. 

"I --" 

"Husband. Do not think I will let you deny yourself tonight -- or *ever* -- in the interests of perfect dominance," she says, and her blue eyes are hard and bright and full and -- perfect. 

Laurent inhales -- 

And then he steps back, takes a *deep* breath, and bows. "As you say, wife. Always." 

They'll just have to see about finding especially foul things for Treville to roll in -- at times when there are nearby streams to *bathe* in, as well. 

~


	2. Shedding

There are times when Athos only wishes to play games. This is not so strange a thing; most people have moods quite like this, by his observations. 

Where the differences seem to come in, as near as Athos has been able to tell, is when it comes to matters like the fact that Athos most often likes to play the games alone, in the privacy of his mind, and that the games themselves often include things like this one: 

Guess which utterly incomprehensible and undoubtedly distressing interpersonal matter has blackened Aramis's mood so much *this* time that he's taken to staring daggers at everyone and everything which has the misfortune to come near him. 

It's not only a pleasurable pastime, it's a useful one. The closer Athos gets to figuring out the answer -- he truly never gets very close, but still -- the better he will be at learning the ins and outs of his fellow men -- and, more importantly, of his brothers. 

So, he spends some of his training time playing -- 

And considering --

The easy answer would be an assignation gone wrong. It's Aramis; there is *always* a woman *somewhere*, and it's *always* complicated in some *way*. 

So, he makes it interesting. It's not her *husband* that's upsetting the proverbial apple cart, it's her aged *Uncle*, who wishes to leave her a disgustingly large amount of money in his will, but only if she... 

If she... stops making love with every staggeringly beautiful soldier who smiles at her? 

Stops making love with every staggeringly beautiful soldier who smiles at her while saving her from pirates -- no, that was last month. 

Hm. 

He thinks about it while he helps the cadets with their fencing. Perhaps there was a child? 

A child in need of... something or other?

Sometimes Aramis's pride *does* outweigh his good sense, even now, and he might not simply ask for *help* -- 

Especially if there's *also* a beautiful woman to be considered -- 

Case in point, the events of *three* months ago -- 

Could this be an actual problem?

Athos lets himself gravitate toward the shooting range, since Aramis *will* realize that he needs to calm himself down soon enough, and -- 

Yes, there he is, already. The slots to either side of him are empty. 

The slots to either side of *those* are empty, as *well* -- hm. Well, this is what happens when Porthos isn't available for the other men to *throw* at Aramis's bad moods. It's entirely possible Treville was only moments away from asking *Athos* why he wasn't throwing *himself* at -- 

And, yes, Treville is absolutely on the catwalk. 

Looking at him. 

Athos gives him a very smart, professional nod, while wincing with *all* of himself internally. 

He'd grown a bit too accustomed to having Porthos to lean on, as well. With the man on leave while he learns how to use his new-to-him magical powers and abilities... 

Well. There will be less time to play, and that's all there is to it. 

Athos picks up a practice pistol -- he rather likes having the opportunity to train himself to use weapons *other* than his own -- and takes the slot to Aramis's right. 

"I am *fine*," Aramis says, immediately, and shoots a bullseye with the musket. 

"No, you're not," Athos says, and loads quickly and efficiently. 

"I --" Aramis growls. Bristles, truly. And sets the musket down respectfully so he can load the arquebusier. 

"I would like to know why you're *not* fine so that we can *both* stop being --" 

Aramis slumps, just like that. "We are in trouble." 

"Yes," Athos says, and checks the sight -- 

Shoots -- 

Bullseye. 

"Very good, brother." 

"Thank you. Is there a woman?" 

"No, there is not a --" Aramis growls and *glares* at him. 

Athos raises an eyebrow. And waits. 

And waits. 

And *waits*. 

Aramis slumps -- and shoots with a deceptive casualness -- bullseye. 

"Beautiful, as ever. *But*?" 

"There is not a woman, Athos. And... I understand why this was your first guess," Aramis says, and smiles wryly. 

Now that Athos is paying attention, there is a bruise showing in the shadows of his collar. It -- he frowns, and *looks* at Aramis. 

Aramis's smile is, if anything, even more wry as he turns to set down the arquebusier, test the musket for temperature, and then pull his pistol from his hip. "There is not... a *woman*." 

Athos blinks. And blushes. "I... see." 

"Mm. So you do. And I am very, very surprised by this blush, considering," Aramis says, looking at *him* before he shoots -- bullseye -- 

"Perfection -- and. You're speaking of the fact that I grew up in a very sexually... open family." 

"A *pack*, my brother, with... with a pack's ways," Aramis says, and frowns. Though his frown is less one of upset than one of *consternation*. It...

This is... "Aramis... did you go to see Porthos last night?" 

"I thought, only, to look in on his rooms. His *old* rooms, where he will not be *staying* anymore, now that he knows... everything that we *all* know about who he truly *is*. 

Neither of them look toward Treville's office. Neither of them -- "He was there." 

"He had the same *idea*, my brother," Aramis says, and pinches the bridge of his nose -- stops that immediately and starts reloading the musket. "He was there, and he... knew me. Knew me in ways..." Aramis growls. "You know *precisely* what I am speaking about." 

"I do. Treville has always been able to *smell* our deepest emotions, our deepest *truths*... sometimes it seems as though the blood-connections were an after-thought." 

"*Yes*, that, and I -- you *know* Porthos. You know how he *is* about *lies*. Even the most -- the most *beneficial* lies." 

"I know that he has always been... very gentle," Athos says, and raises an eyebrow. 

"He is *not* so gentle *now*, my brother," Aramis says, and shoots -- bullseye. 

"No?" 

"*No*. Or..." And this frown is more thoughtful. 

"I'm listening." 

"Porthos will not ever agree that some lies can *be* beneficial, I do not think," Aramis says, running his fingers over the arquebusier again and again -- 

Again -- 

"Porthos will only ever see the harm, the lost opportunities, the -- wasted time..." 

"Yes, I can see --" 

"He was very angry with me, my brother." 

Athos winces. "For lying to him about -- your feelings." 

"Oh, yes. And for *trying* to lie to him about them *again*... I would not have done this thing if I had been thinking clearly." 

"Aramis... did he..." 

"He did not *let* me continue to lie to him," Aramis says, picking up the arquebusier, loading it, shooting -- bullseye. "I was not ready to tell the truth, I don't think..." He cocks his head to the side and stares into his own memories. "I had many fantasies where Porthos *forced* me to be honest with him -- and then forced me to do many, many other things --" 

"*Fuck* -- *Aramis* --" 

"He did not do that, Athos," Aramis says, and finally looks *at* him again, steady and sure and hard. "By the time he kissed me, I was begging for his touch." 

Athos -- blinks. "I..." 

Aramis smiles wryly. "The *problem*, I *think*, is that part of why I was begging -- a small part, but still a part -- was to get him to stop asking questions. His too-*cogent* questions that -- suddenly -- I had no ability to deflect." 

Athos takes a breath and nods. "Were you able to speak... after?" 

Aramis shakes his head. "I left his bed. I told him I needed to think. I told him... I *promised* him that I would come to him again, that I wouldn't make either of us wait..." Aramis reloads the pistol quickly, easily, professionally. "You are always honest in your pack." 

"Yes, but --" 

"You have no *choice* but to be honest." 

"Aramis, there is still *privacy*." 

"Do you want it?" 

"I --" 

"*Truly*, my brother. Do you *want* it. When the *other* option is..." Aramis licks his lips, and *then* he looks to Treville's office. "I know you make love with him." 

"Sometimes, yes --" 

"You never speak of it." 

"I... I did with Porthos, from time to time." 

Aramis blinks -- and turns back to face him. 

Athos smiles ruefully. "We both know how much Porthos desired him -- *desires* --" 

"I... I did not know that he shared that with you," Aramis says, quietly. 

"And not with you?"

Aramis reaches up to touch the bruise on his throat -- "He spoke, last night, of joining the larger pack -- *some* of the larger pack -- for lovemaking. Of wanting me there. Of wanting *us* there." 

"We've had that conversation, yes. It --" 

"It... only has to *be* a conversation," Aramis says, very much with an air of a man having a revelation. "*You* do not make love with anyone in the larger pack except for Treville and your brother." 

"Yes." 

"Have you *wished* to?" 

"Never enough to take them up on their exceedingly sincere offers, Aramis. I... am not built that way." 

Aramis nods slowly and thoughtfully. 

Athos moves closer, and cups Aramis's shoulders. "*You* are not built that way, either, brother." 

"I --" 

"You may *someday* be built that way... but that day is not today," Athos says, and smiles wryly. 

Aramis flushes -- and nods. 

"Additionally... well." And Athos raises an eyebrow and consciously calls on the parts of himself *built* by leaders of men. "Look at the question systematically, brother. *What*, specifically, *upset* you about last night? What hurt you? What would you *change*." 

Aramis bares his *teeth* -- 

"No. *Systematically*." 

"I --" And Aramis inhales sharply and nods. "Porthos... our Porthos..." 

"Yes?" 

Aramis narrows his eyes *hotly*, but does not otherwise lose his control. "He did not offer *anything* in the way of *correction*." 

Athos blinks. "I... what?" 

"For my *lies*, my brother!" 

"I --" 

"He did not *correct* me. He did not *punish* me. He did not --" Aramis shakes his head once. "He *rewarded* me -- all night *long*! -- for my poor *behaviour*, and this -- what is to stop me from lying *again*?" 

Athos licks his lips. "Not... wanting... to?" 

Aramis *looks* at him. 

Athos takes a breath and -- belts up, a bit. "You're absolutely right, of course. I don't know what... either of us were thinking --" 

"*Yes*!" 

"But --" 

"But *what*?" 

Athos smiles ruefully. "I believe you would be better served by *explaining* this to Porthos." 

Aramis blinks -- 

Frowns -- 

"He... does not know this." 

"I think it would be fair to -- ah. No, Aramis. No."

"You are saying..." Aramis frowns more deeply. "You are certain that the fact that *you* did not know it --" 

"I am *reasonably* certain that you are, in this case, more strange than me, Aramis." 

Aramis nods slowly. "I... did not know that this was... such a strange thing."

"No...?" 

"Not very many people have *managed* to catch me in my lies, my brother," Aramis says, and smiles wryly. "Even *fewer* people... have managed to make love with me." 

Athos inclines his head. "That makes sense to every part of me. Do let's tell him this." 

Aramis hums -- "As you *say*, my brother," he says, and wraps his arms around Athos, squeezing tightly. 

"I've earned this?" 

"You always do." 

"Hm. That's... difficult to credit." 

"You will trust me about this." 

"As you say --" 

"Porthos *also* wishes to seduce *you*, you know." 

"He did mention that --" 

"Will he sniff *you* and find truths? Has Treville *already* done this?" 

Athos laughs softly. "As I've already told Porthos, I do not always feel entirely comfortable making love with the people I'm attracted to physically. Even the people I'm attracted to physically, emotionally, intellectually... well. I love Porthos -- and *you* -- with all of myself, and I strongly suspect that *one* day -- almost certainly too *late* -- I'll feel true desire, but..." 

Aramis pulls back and frowns at him. 

Athos smiles ruefully. "I know what you wish to say. It's only... I've always needed more *time* for this sort of thing than everyone else in the world seems to." 

Aramis nods slowly and thoughtfully again. "I..." 

"Yes?" 

"I cannot *remotely* picture you as a priest." 

Athos coughs a laugh. "*Good*. Now --" 

"There was also one other problem with Porthos," Aramis says, and looks distinctly *pained*. 

"Aramis?" 

"I." If anything, he looks even *more* pained. 

"Tell me, please --" 

"It is only... I have *always* felt that, when providing oral pleasure to *anyone*, male or female, one must *properly* cherish the genitals, and teach their owner of their essential beauty and mystery!" 

"Hm. Yes, that seems -- but yes?" 

The pained look returns. "How... Porthos's *sheath* was so..." 

"Yes...?" 

Aramis licks his lips -- 

Reaches up to touch his own mouth seemingly absently -- 

"I... there was so much *fur*, my brother!" 

"Well... yes? It --" 

"And the fur itself was quite beautiful, wavy and thick and -- but. Not at all conducive to the giving of oral pleasure," Aramis says, and frowns. Deeply. 

"Ah." 

"Yes? How do you *deal* with this?" 

"I -- hm. Well. With Treville, I ah..." Athos considers a gesture -- 

Considers it -- 

Considers it *deeply* -- no. "You must simply force the sheath *back*, Aramis --" 

"But --" 

"-- *before* providing the... oral pleasure --" 

"But you must love the entire area!" 

"... *true*, but, if Porthos is *anything* like his father in *this* respect, then the sheath itself has negligible sexual sensitivity." 

Aramis blinks. "Truly?" 

"Yes." 

"He seemed to enjoy my attentions a great deal, my brother." 

Athos is blushing again. "I imagine that might have something to do with the fact that it was you, and your mouth, and your mouth doing mouth-intensive things on and near his groin, Aramis. Still --" 

"I will ask." 

"Excellent." 

"I will then, perhaps, ask to shave it." 

"Hm." 

"More shooting?" 

"Yes, let's." 

~


	3. Aggressive Defecation

"For fuck's sake, Fearless!" 

Fearless -- bless him -- snaps at him for that. Kitos takes that about as seriously as he ever does -- 

Maybe a little less so -- 

Maybe -- 

Well, Fearless is squatting in the Queen-Regent's flowerbeds, trousers and breeches around his knees, with the *exact* scowl on his face that tends to mean -- 

"*Dieu*, meneur, what have you been *eating*?" 

Fearless growls, low and flat as ever, and -- 

And he really is leaving enough of a *reek*, at this point -- 

"You know, Fearless --" 

The growl gets flatter and louder and *meaner* -- 

"I'd come over there and *whallop* you for that if the fumes wouldn't make me pass out, you arse!" 

The growl chokes off into a *yip* -- and Fearless wipes off with a linen he'd obviously stolen from the bloody Queen-Regent's own bloody *table* -- 

"I cannot *believe* you, meneur!" 

He tosses the desecrated linen behind a bloody *bush* -- 

\-- and then -- *finally* -- joins them on guard duty. 

With a *satisfied* sigh. 

Kitos whallops him. 

"Did you think that would *stop* me, brother?" 

"*Nothing* bloody stops you!" 

"That's *right* --" 

"I..." And Reynard frowns with seeming helplessness. 

"Mm? What is it, fox-face?" 

"It is only... the flowers, the bushes, they were not so *lush* the first few times we were given guard duty here..." 

"No, they -- shit." And Kitos looks to Fearless helplessly -- 

Reynard is still frowning at the bloody *bushes* -- 

And Fearless...

Fearless is staring in horror. 

Kitos claps him on the back. "Belt up, Fearless! When she finally takes your lands, commission, and titles from you for being the biggest arsehole on the bloody planet --" 

"He can take up life as a farmer, verrat?" 

"Absolutely, fox-face. We'll have to teach him what *else* stableboys are good for, but, you know, we'll get there." 

"Ah, oui, oui." 

~


	4. Over-Salivation

"For this part of your training, son, we're going to need some help," Treville says, and smiles a little ruefully. It...

"Mm? What is it, Daddy? You think this -- whatever it is -- is going to be harder than the rest?" And Porthos has his eyebrows up -- 

His eyes are bright and eager -- 

His ears are just a little perked -- not obviously so; they're small enough that that sort of thing hardly ever shows, especially considering the fact that most people are going to be paying attention to his magnificent boy's height, his size, his beard, his *curls* -- 

Those wonderful *curls* -- 

"Daddy." 

"Hmm, yes, staying on target..." 

Porthos snorts and kicks Treville's boot under the sitting room table. 

Treville grins. "As an aside, I know I've said it a dozen times if I've said it once --" 

"I like taking my meals in here, too, Daddy," Porthos says, smile softening as he looks around at the portraits on the walls -- 

Lingering on the magically-produced -- from Treville's memories -- portrait of Amina -- 

Lingering on the especially-*battered* weapons -- the best-loved weapons from the General's lieutenants, closest to the bedroom door --"I love the history in here, eh?" 

Treville inclines his head and sips his tea -- which his beloved son loves drinking in the mornings when he can -- 

Which will be *always* -- 

Porthos *laughs* softly. "About the training...?" 

"Mm. Your brothers should be arriving very, very soon." 

"Fuck, you're waking *them* up ludicrously early, too? That's just cruel," Porthos says, laughing more and asking questions with his eyebrows. 

Treville inclines his head. "We both know I'd prefer it if they lived *here*. Or -- well, I suppose I'd *allow* Athos to live with --" 

"His own parents...?" 

And Porthos's tongue is peeking -- 

"Shit -- fuck --" 

"It's all right, son. That particular mannerism --" 

"No, I -- I want to at *least* be aware when I'm *doing* it, Daddy." 

"Mm, point taken. In *my* observations, you only seem to do it when you're mocking someone either for their deviance or for being particularly *mad* about something. Or both." 

Porthos blinks -- and nods slowly. "Right, I'll watch that. Also -- it *has* to count that Athos is still living with *Thomas*, Daddy." 

"One day, son, you're going to have children, and godchildren, and nephews and nieces..." Treville shakes his head. 

"I'm... not going to be able to let them get *away* from me? What?" 

"The fact that you *may* not be making love with them --" 

Porthos *coughs* -- 

"-- will not *stop* them from being your *pack*, son. You will need them close. You will need them close enough to *sniff*, and *clutch*, and *roll* on, and? Lick. Which brings us to today's lessons." 

"Uhh..." 

"Have a little more tea, son." 

"But --" 

Treville holds up a hand, and reaches for Jason, who is across the street in the stables, cosseting the horses...

(And good morning to you, *too*, amant...) 

Treville hums. Not-sleep well...?

(Oh, yes. I've lined up any *number* of texts *neither* you nor Porthos will want to touch with ten-foot poles --) 

But will have to? 

(But will *need* to, yes. It's all going to be *wildly* entertaining --) 

For you? 

(For me, yes.) 

Treville snorts. I love you madly. Have our guests arrived...? 

(Ten minutes ago, actually -- Aramis and I had a lovely conversation about the nobility and *grandness* of horses --) 

Oh fuck. Not --

(I like him better than you, amant.) 

Did either of you suck *off* any of our horses -- 

(I'm leaving you for him, amant.) 

Good to know, good to -- how is Athos doing? 

(Quite possibly wondering about my relationship with the horses.) 

Treville sighs happily. Such good boys, he says, and sends a long, wet, *hungry* kiss along their link. Until later, lover. 

(Oh... yes.) 

Treville returns to find Porthos laughing at -- 

"Sodding both of you," he says, shaking his head and grinning. "I'm so glad you found each other." 

"Mm. You may have guessed that I'm happy about it, too, son --" 

Porthos kicks his boot again -- 

And Treville grins and gestures for him to stand. "Your brothers will be up here soon." 

"Right you are," Porthos says, standing and giving himself a little shake. 

Treville nods. 

"Yeah? Not *too* doggy?" 

"Not at all, son. It'll always feel more intense when you first wake up, after meals... that sort of thing." 

"Got it. I --" And then Porthos is grinning and moving to the door to *yank* Aramis into his arms for a deep, loving, passionate kiss -- 

"*MM* --" 

\-- which is only to be expected, given what Treville had *smelled* on Aramis the other day, and what Porthos himself had *told* him the other *night* -- 

But then Porthos rumbles his way *out* of the kiss -- 

"Porthos -- my *Porthos* --" 

Sniffs Aramis everywhere he can easily *reach* -- 

"Please -- I --" 

Slams him against the *wall* -- 

"*Fuck*!" 

"I -- I just --" And then -- well, Porthos starts to lick him. Everywhere. 

His face, his ears, his collar -- 

"Gah --" 

His chest -- 

"What -- what --"

His mouth -- 

"My Porthos, you -- *mmph* --!" 

Well, that tongue was bound to grow eventually. Treville sighs ruefully, and moves to join Athos near the doorway. He tugs the man into a hug and -- gently -- licks his temples. Once each.

Athos hums and spares one more glance for his brothers -- 

Porthos is chewing Aramis's hair while Aramis -- gingerly -- pets him. Well enough, for now -- 

Athos turns back to *him* -- and licks his cheek before pulling back with a measuring look. "You were expecting this." 

"To a certain extent, son." 

"Only that...?" And Athos's eyebrow is up under his fringe. 

"*Before* the two of them spent the night fucking like animals --" 

Athos coughs -- 

Treville winks. "Before that, son? It was *entirely* possible that Porthos could have had that reaction to *you* first." 

"I -- first? But --" 

"Just a moment," Treville says, and barks for Porthos's attention -- 

Porthos pulls back from licking and nibbling at Aramis's *thoroughly* exposed collarbone -- he's got that *mad* gleam in his eyes that his dog always seems to give him -- 

And Treville hums. "How are you going to greet your *other* brother, son?" 

For long moments, his magnificent son is at war with himself. *Obviously* so. 

There is his yearning desire to continue marking Aramis in every *possible* way -- 

There is his yearning *need* to *begin* marking *Athos* in every possible way -- 

There is his need to *romp* and *play* and otherwise urge the dog in Treville toward reprehensibly -- and wonderfully -- irresponsible acts all over the *floor* -- 

And, of course, there is the man in Porthos, who truly, *truly* wishes to remember all of his *lessons* in how *not* to be quite so *much* of a dog -- 

At least not when he's not *choosing* to be a dog -- 

(Fuck fuck fuck HELP --) 

"I won't always *be* there to help you, son..." 

(Oh my fucking fuck you ARSE --) 

"You know what to do, son..." 

(*FUCK* -- I NEED TO CHEW ON THEM SO BAD --) And now Porthos doesn't look mad so much as *tortured* -- 

"Think it through, son..." 

"Ah... if I may ask..." And Athos is looking back and forth between them -- 

"They are communicating *half*-silently, my brother," Aramis says. "Our Captain is being very stern and hard with our Porthos in an effort to help him find his *control*." 

"Ah, of course. I am familiar with this protocol," Athos says, and settles at attention. 

Porthos flares his nostrils and *whines* with the need to make Athos *play* with him -- 

To be fair, Treville *usually* feels the same way -- and Athos is on the floor, covered in approximately twenty stone of Porthos and being licked to within an inch of his life. 

And rolled about. 

And -- pounced on again. 

And rolled more -- 

And *licked* more -- 

Treville sighs. "That was my fault, truly," he says, to the room at large as he hands Aramis a linen. 

Aramis looks like he doesn't know what to *do* with the thing for long moments -- and then he takes a deep breath -- 

*Yanks* on his aplomb -- 

*Obviously* decides to ignore Athos's mild distress for the moment -- "How so...?" 

"Well --" And Treville moves as nimbly as he can out of the way of the rolling -- 

"That was very graceful, sir!"

"Thank you kindly, Aramis. As I was saying -- Athos came to attention. That made Porthos -- and his dog -- want to *play* with him even more. Instead of keeping my own feelings under lock and key, I let Porthos *feel* me thinking that such things *also* made me want to play with Athos even more." 

Aramis nods thoughtfully and moves away from the wall -- just in time for Porthos to slam Athos into it -- "You are saying that, at times like this, he needs *us* to be strong even more than he needs for *himself* to be strong." 

"Just so, son. Though... do be careful how you define such things," Treville says, and raises his eyebrows. 

Aramis reaches up to touch the rising bruises on his collarbone almost dreamily -- 

Blushes *fascinatingly* -- mm. That is, perhaps, not a thought worth carrying to *any* conclusions while Porthos lacks control -- 

At which point Porthos stiffens, *yips*, and -- 

Treville doesn't actually let him pounce on Aramis again. He yanks that lead hard enough that Porthos winds up staggering like a drunk into the breakfast table, unsteady on his feet and this close to falling over. 

Aramis steadies him -- 

And Porthos flares his nostrils a solid half-dozen times, but doesn't pounce, lick, or manhandle anyone before he's steady again. "Right, Daddy, you could've bloody *warned* me!" 

"I *did* warn you, son." 

"All you said is that the dog would want to come out of me around people I bloody *cared* about!" 

Treville spreads his hands. 

"You *arse*! I -- wait," Porthos says, and goes to retrieve the decidedly rumpled, damp, and *dazed* Athos from the corner. "All right, mate?" 

"I... don't remember this? At *all*? *Sir*." 

Treville laughs softly and leans against the table. "I'd learned control before you and your brother were ever born, son." 

"But you did this to your pack? When you were first changed?" 

Treville closes his eyes and remembers... "I put chains on myself, sons. Chains and..." He shakes his head and opens his eyes again. "I didn't know -- because I was a fool -- that I had the *option* of true companionship. True *brotherhood*. I was alone, and I taught myself *most* of this *while* I was alone." 

Porthos winces and moves to him. "Daddy... I'll do better." 

"No, son. Never think..." Treville growls. "I said all of that wrong. That was *not* the lesson I wanted you to take." 

Porthos frowns -- 

And Treville goes to him and grips him by one magnificent shoulder and the back of the neck -- 

Porthos inhales -- 

"Don't be alone, son. Don't ever, ever --" Treville growls again. "I had to leave my brothers -- my *pack*, for all that I didn't know they *were* that to me -- for *months* to teach myself what I'm teaching you. And I didn't learn it *well*, *because* I didn't have them. I didn't have their scents, their touch, their *wisdom*, their *care*. My pack -- including, eventually, your mother, Marie-Angelique, and Jason -- taught me things about myself and my powers and abilities that I *never* could have learned on my own. That I never could have *imagined*. *Your* brothers -- and the people you will meet who will *become* your brothers and sisters and more -- will teach you that much more. 

"I *promise* you that," Treville says, and raises his eyebrows. 

Porthos swallows -- and nods. "Yes, sir -- Daddy." 

Treville lets his expression quirk *precisely* as much as it wants to. "You know I want to *kick* myself for *ever* sounding so much like the Captain that that slips out of you, don't you?" 

Porthos snorts and punches him in the belly. 

Just like his mother. 

Treville grins and pulls him in close. "My son." 

"Hm." And Athos sounds thoughtfully *amused*. 

"Yes, Athos?" 

"This raises a somewhat distressing question... about what you and Father have wanted *me* to call you both." 

Treville pulls away from Porthos. "Son, we've both *begged* you to pull the stick out!" 

"But --" 

Porthos *wheezes* -- 

Aramis seems to be staring into *nothingness* -- leave it. 

"But *nothing*. Laurent has personally begged *all* of us -- Amina, me, Reynard, Kitos -- to do everything we could *think* of to loosen you up --" 

Porthos *guffaws* -- 

"-- because you were trying to call him 'sir' before you learned how to say 'Papa'!" 

"I -- hm. You have to admit it's more respectful --" 

"Son, pounce on him again -- yes, just like that," Treville says, and sighs as he watches Porthos roll Athos around... wonderfully. 

And then he joins Aramis with a second linen and helps him dry off a bit. 

"I am allowed to not be coated with questionably-human saliva?" 

"It's not at *all* human, son, and yes, you are. For now." 

"Why is this?" 

Treville hums and cups Aramis's shoulder. A bit closer to his long, strong throat than the Captain ever allows himself to do. And then he raises an eyebrow. 

Aramis inhales sharply -- and looks to Porthos with his soft lips parted... but only for a moment. 

Porthos had told Treville that he and Aramis had had *that* conversation, as well -- however truncated in the name of fucking like animals. 

Still -- some things ought to be spoken aloud. "Nothing you don't want. Nothing you don't want with *all* of yourself, son --" 

"I -- what do *you* want. Specifically," Aramis says, and raises an eyebrow. 

Treville flares his nostrils -- and rumbles. 

"You liked this question?" 

"I did. *Very* much, son --" 

"Answer it. Please." 

Treville inclines his head. "My son's mark is all over you. I want mine there, too -- though not in quite so many places. I don't have *that* sort of greed." 

Aramis blinks -- and his pulse is thundering a little. "No?" 

"No. More, and more to the point: I want you to be my son *just* as much as I've always wanted Athos to be my son --" 

"*Sir* -- *fuck* --" The rest of Athos's noises are wonderfully squashed, which is perfect, as far as Treville is concerned. 

And Aramis's eyebrows are up around his hairline. 

Treville hums. "Laurent and Marie-Angelique know this. *Thomas* knows this -- I want him to be my son, too, and they're all much more reasonable about the matter than Athos is --" 

"What... is reasonable? For this." 

"Reasonable, *son*, is accepting the fact that the love and desire of one hungrily *acquisitive* man for the beautiful, brilliant, loving, wise, powerful, witty, skilled... well. That love and desire is *itself*, and nothing *but* itself. There is nothing to be done *with* it but accept that it is there -- and live with it, in one way or another. Unless, of course, one finds it oppressive and disturbing, in which case one can and *should* tell the hungrily acquisitive man to fuck right off."

Aramis cocks his head to the side. "Even when this man is your Captain?" 

"Even then, son." 

"Even when this man is -- and has been -- all you have dreamed of becoming?" 

"In such cases... one must always remind oneself -- and take to *heart* -- that the man..." Treville shakes his head and growls low. "You must take this to heart, son: I will *always* teach you, and train you, and make you *better*. I will make you the *absolute* best man you *can* be -- whether or not we ever learn what it feels like to have you kneel to me." 

Aramis *grunts* -- and flushes deeply. 

"I see. I wasn't clear enough about that before. Let me fix that: I'm a hungry man, and a *greedy* man, and an even greedier *dog*. *One* of the ways this comes out is in my absolute *fixation* for putting strong, beautiful men on their knees and making them learn *exactly* what it means to be *mine*." 

"I -- I belong to *Porthos*!" 

Treville smiles and rumbles and gazes at -- some of -- the bruises his son has left on Aramis's lovely canvas. "So you do. But..." And Treville leans in and sniffs around and around Aramis's well-licked ear. "Consider the possibilities inherent to Porthos sharing his *brother* with *their* father. Mm?" 

Aramis shivers like a *boy* --

Treville pulls back, and moves his hand, and turns to Athos and Porthos, who are curled together on the floor, cuddling like large, wonderfully-deadly puppies -- 

"How..." 

Treville turns back to Aramis immediately. "Son?" 

"How will this..." Aramis frowns. "I must decide what I want with you." 

"I'm going to give you time to think --" 

"I must speak with *Porthos* when he has more *control*... and when he does not." 

Treville inclines his head. 

"How will you treat me -- and treat *with* me -- until such time as I make a decision?" 

Treville doesn't quite pull on the Captain -- he's incapable of doing *that* with all of *these* scents in his nose -- but he buries his deviant, just a little, before raising an eyebrow. "As I've said, I've learned control, son. I'll not be... weighting the scales." 

"You mean you will *try* not to --" Aramis inhales and nods. "Yes, I see how this will be, and I *believe* that I can come to appreciate it?" He frowns again. *Blackly*.

Treville barks a laugh. "No, son?" 

"I have seen the *truth* of you now! I do not like moving *backwards*!" 

Treville laughs *hard*. "All right, one very important question --" 

"Do not -- do not *hide* yourself from me. Do *not* do this thing. Not ever. *Please*," Aramis says, and his amber-brown eyes are hard, and clear, and -- 

There is not one thing about him which isn't steady.

Treville inclines his head, and lets his eyes heat once more.

Aramis searches him -- and smiles, bright and just a little young.

"You knew exactly what you wanted out of this life when you came to us... and you never once changed your mind. Not *once*." 

Aramis blinks. "This... is strange?" 

"It's rare, and sweet, and beautiful. Like you. And, yes, it's one of the reasons why." 

"Oh. I..." 

"Now, let's get your brothers off the floor so I can tell you *all* how we're going to be training Porthos going forward." 

~


	5. Deliberate and Forceful Pissing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all probably think this chapter is the whole reason this story exists. I would just like to state, for the record, that it's only *some* of the reason it exists.

This -- is unseemly. 

This -- 

'Unseemly' is the worst, most cowardly, most *unfit* of euphemisms -- 

It is, sadly, what Laurent has to hand at the moment. 

For his own eagerness. 

For his hopes. 

For his *greed* -- all of it for *this* moment, *this* one: Dragging Jean-Armand du Peyrer de Treville, and everything the young man has *become* in recent weeks, *firmly* back to Laurent's own quarters while he grizzles and fusses and *fights* -- 

*Far* beyond the fair side of insubordination -- 

So *many* people believe -- with Laurent's helplessly tacit consent -- that Laurent *whips* the boy there on nights like this. 

It is the *only* explanation he's been able to -- not *give*, but allow to *circulate*, for why Treville hasn't been drummed out of the regiment for his *countless* acts of insubordination and *worse* and -- 

That doesn't matter right now. 

*None* of that matters right now -- not even the stain upon Laurent's *honour* -- 

Not even the fact that, once again, he's been forced to leave Honore, his *Honore*, in the hands of someone entirely *lesser* -- though never anyone who would go against *his* wishes -- 

It doesn't matter. 

What matters is this: 

The way Treville's struggles end with a soft little sigh nearly as soon as Laurent opens the door to his quarters. 

The way Treville's curses becomes quietly gulped *breaths* nearly as soon as Laurent opens the door. 

The way Treville straightens, flares his nostrils -- 

His tongue peeks -- 

And, now that the door is closed behind them -- 

Now that the candles are lit -- 

All of the candles; *all* of them -- 

Treville is standing at attention and *smiling* -- and still flaring his nostrils. "You had questions for me, sir...?" 

*That*. Laurent growls. "You goaded the new recruits into their *rebellion* --" 

"It was really just a bit of back-talk --" 

"-- *because* you wanted to come back here, with me." 

Treville flares his nostrils again -- 

Parts his lips -- 

His eyes *gleam* -- "You want to ask me more questions, sir --" 

"*Treville* --" 

"I. I always want that." 

Laurent blinks -- and catches himself flaring his own nostrils. 

*Catches* himself because... 

Because Treville has just shivered like a horse. 

Laurent narrows his eyes and nods once. "In the future, recruit... you will come to me with your... desires." 

Treville parts his lips --

There's a *question* in his pale blue eyes -- 

But all he *says* is: "Yes, sir." 

It's not enough. It's -- 

Laurent must take it. He -- 

He must *take* it -- 

But -- there are other things. "You will not have leave this weekend, Treville." 

"Yes, sir." 

"You will, instead, spend your time training *assiduously* --" 

"With you, sir?" 

"You will not interrupt, recruit," Laurent says, but it was less an order than a reflexive twitch of the cloak of command he wears. He is... staring. 

And Treville is looking right back at him, looking deep into his eyes -- 

His lips are *parted* again -- 

"I apologize, sir." 

Laurent nods, and paces closer, closer -- until they are only a pace *apart* -- and he must admit this to himself: A part of him had only done it to see if Treville would do anything. Flare his nostrils. Shiver again. Lick his -- 

Oh, his beautiful *mouth* -- 

Laurent *growls* -- 

"Sir...?" 

"I have not yet decided on your training programme for the weekend, recruit," Laurent lies -- and loathes himself for it. 

He paces away, takes himself *away* -- 

"Time will tell." 

"Yes, sir." 

"Tell me more... of the dog in you." 

Treville makes a soft, low sound -- 

It almost seems *hungry* -- 

"Please, sir. I would. I would like for you to be more specific." 

Laurent growls -- 

"Or -- or I could --" 

"You told me, when last we spoke of this, that you felt that 'everything' was different. That everything was *new*. Elaborate on this," Laurent says, and turns to face Treville because he *must*. 

And Treville... is smiling again. *Hopefully*. He -- 

So *young* -- 

"*Yes*, sir. It -- it can be something as small as... as my own scents when I wake up in the morning. I always *enjoyed* my scents after a good night's rest, or even just a *few* hours of sleep --" 

"But now it's... better?" 

"Much better, sir. Warmer, richer, *thicker*..." And Treville makes that -- that wonderful *rumbling* sound -- "If I haven't been drinking the night before, or have only been drinking a little, it can be hard to get me *up*. It's just -- so good." 

Those flaring *nostrils* -- "And the same is true for all scents you found pleasant in the past?" 

Treville opens his mouth -- closes his mouth and frowns. 

"No, recruit?" 

"I... I *used* to like Yvette's -- you know, Honore's favourite among the whores --" 

"You don't care for *her* scents?" And Laurent's eyebrows are -- climbing. 

"Oh -- I --" And Treville licks his lips and blushes. "She's a good-smelling woman! You know, I -- um. I just -- her perfume. I used to like it. Now it's too strong. It's better when Honore doesn't -- doesn't kiss her neck too much." 

Laurent, for perhaps the ten thousandth time, tries and fails to will himself not to blush. That done, he carries on. "Other perfumes...?" 

Another frown -- and a slow nod. "I... almost never like them these days." 

What about *my* perfume -- no, he *will* ask. "Is my perfume too strong, recruit? Off-putting or distracting in other ways?" 

Treville meets his eyes steadily, evenly -- "I've always liked your scents, sir. Your. All of your scents --" 

Oh. "Even now...?" 

"Yes, sir. You... there's something about your perfume that's... better. I don't know what it is. I think, maybe, it goes better with your *own* scents." 

This raises countless questionable avenues of inquiry -- starting with the desire to *press* Treville's beautiful face to Laurent's skin before asking still more questions about his scents, but *not* ending there -- 

It is, by far, the better part of valour to divert that particular river: 

"Tell me what else is... new." 

"Well -- I know it probably doesn't seem like a different thing, but -- but *Honore's* scents are just..." And Treville's smile is nearly beatific as he flares his nostrils again and again and *again*. 

"You are... remembering his many scents as we speak?" 

"*Yes*, sir. And -- before I could only *really* smell him when we were waking up together on the really *icy* mornings, or when we were both incredibly sweaty, that sort of thing, but now... now I can smell him all the *time*. I can smell when he's *happy*. I can smell when he's *annoyed*. I can smell when he's had enough to *eat* --" 

"You." 

"Mm? Sir?" 

Laurent *stares* --

There are *terrifyingly* broad vistas opening before him -- 

But he must be larger than his fears. Always. He clears his throat *once*, and -- "I imagine... you can smell *all* of his emotional states, recruit?" 

"*Yes*, sir. I -- I never have to step *wrong* with him. I can always..." And Treville ducks his head and colours -- 

"Head *up*." 

Treville *grunts* and obeys. "I apologize, sir!" 

"Accepted. Finish your earlier statement. *What* can you always do." 

"Sir..." And Treville licks his lips. "I can always know, now, what. What he needs from me," Treville says, low and even and steady, even as his pulse pounds in his throat -- 

His *breathing* isn't steady -- 

He. 

And Laurent must be brave enough to ask the next question. 

*All* of the next -- 

No, no, only the *appropriate* -- "Recruit..." 

"Yes, sir." 

Laurent wets his lips and moves no closer. "The magic..." No, be *firm*. Be *sure*. "Are you capable of this degree of knowledge, of *assurance*, about *everyone*, recruit?"

"Yes, sir. But -- there's usually too much information, sir. Too much --" He shakes his head. "Every human, every horse, every cat, every dog, every *bench*, every *cookpot*, every *latrine* -- they're all just a *riot* of scents, sir. I usually make myself focus on just Honore so I don't get distracted by... everything else." 

Oh... "You've had difficulty not... losing yourself." 

"Yes, sir." 

"What do you focus on when Honore is *not* with you?" *Who* -- 

Treville's smile, this time, is both puckish and -- wild. "You tend to make sure I'm with *you* when I'm not with Honore. Sir." And he flares his nostrils twice -- 

Shivers -- 

Shifts on his *feet* -- 

"Be *still*." 

"*Yes*, sir --" 

"What --" Do you want from me. But he cannot, *cannot* ask that question. 

What he *can* and *should* do... is test. 

"Recruit." 

Treville pants -- "Yes, sir." 

"What can you discern about my emotional state in these moments." 

Treville rolls his head on his neck -- 

"Answer more *quickly*."

"*Yes*, sir -- I." Treville swallows, and his eyes are wide, and at some point he'd *bitten* his lower lip -- "You're aroused -- sexually. Emotionally, too. You're angry -- though I'm reasonably sure that it's not with me. You smell too much like self-loathing for that --" 

"You're using your powers of *deduction*." 

"Yes, sir. It's -- it's always a blend, at times like these --" 

"Excellent. Keep going." 

"Thank you, sir," Treville says, and smiles -- 

Smiles so -- 

"The scents of your sweat -- some of it is older, but the *musk* is the same, more or less. You've been aroused for at least an hour. Before you retrieved me --" 

"More," Laurent says, and he's sweating more, pacing, looking *away* -- no. 

*No*. 

He *stops* pacing, and he moves *close* to Treville -- 

He meets his *eyes* -- 

"What else, recruit." 

"You're more aroused than you were, sir. You're." Treville licks his lips *twice*. "You're getting more aroused by the second, sir, and. And so am I --" 

Laurent gasps -- 

"You think you *shouldn't* be aroused, sir. You think -- you think you shouldn't *touch* me --" 

"*Recruit* --" 

"Please, sir. Please, I want you to, I want you to so *badly* --" 

"*Stop*." 

And Treville -- whines. 

High and desperate and so -- 

And Laurent realizes that he's reaching for Treville, that the fingers of his right hand are mere inches from. 

From his lovely face -- 

Treville *nods* -- 

And Laurent's mind is filled with -- so many things. 

His hand on Treville's cheek -- 

His hand *gripping* Treville's hair as he bites Treville's *mouth*, his *entire* mouth -- 

His hand on Treville's *throat* -- 

His hand on. 

On Treville's *cock* -- 

And a part of him -- *perhaps* the most redeemable part; he is no longer certain in the *slightest* -- has only begun to think... 

Of more questions. 

Laurent drops his hand -- 

Laurent *folds* his hands behind his back -- 

Treville *whines* again -- 

"Recruit." 

"Please, sir --" 

"Find your *control*, recruit!" 

Treville grunts and stands straight immediately, looking into the distance just over Laurent's right shoulder. 

Laurent doesn't *want* that -- no. No. 

He *must* have that -- at least for now. 

"Recruit..." 

"Yes, sir." 

"We've discussed your sexual preferences in some depth before this moment..." 

"Yes, sir," Treville says, and his voice is even and clear -- though he remains deeply flushed. 

He's sweating -- 

His short hair is curling even more at the temples than it usually does -- no. 

"We have not, however, spent much time discussing your sexual preferences with *adult* males." 

"No, sir. I. I would like to. Very much." 

"Tell me why." 

Treville pants again -- but continues to look over Laurent's shoulder. "Because I believe I've given you... the wrong impression about me. In at least some ways." 

That... is...

There is something both infuriating and *thrilling* about the very *idea* of that. *What* wrong impression?

What has he missed?

What questions has he failed to *ask*?

But -- 

"We'll come back to that --" 

Treville *whines* again -- 

"*Control*." 

"*Yes*, sir! Please, sir, I'll be good!" 

Laurent's cock *jerks* in his trousers as he blinks like a *fool*. 

What could that have -- 

*How* could he have *meant* that -- 

There are so very many *images*, so many different *possibilities*, and Laurent had never realized that his desires had gone so *far* -- no.

No. "How do you plan to 'be good', recruit?" 

"I -- I'll follow all your orders --" 

"You'll do that anyway. More." 

"Hnh -- I'll follow them faster, better, more *obediently* --" 

"Truly." 

"Please, yes, sir!" 

"Why." And Laurent's fingers are on Treville's chin, mussing the trim beard he'd only *truly* gained the ability to grow in the past six *months* --

He's forcing Treville to meet his gaze -- 

To -- "Tell me *why*." 

"Because I love you, sir --" 

"No --" 

"I love you -- just so much --" 

"Treville -- *recruit* --" 

"I'll do *anything* for you, anything you *want*, and -- I didn't know you *wanted* me. I didn't *realize*. I was trying, before, to hide how much I wanted you -- *needed* --" 

"Which of those." 

"Wh-what? Sir?" And Treville's eyes are -- wide again. Wild again. *Dazed*. 

A part of Laurent only wishes to find a way to be gentle with him, to -- to *ease* him -- 

To. 

But he needs to know *how* to do that, *too*. "Did you *want* me before, Treville? Or did you *need* me." 

Treville -- croons. Like a hound. 

A hungry hound. 

He -- 

"Are you capable of answering?" 

Treville *growls* and *shakes* himself -- and then stands straight once more. "Yes, sir. Please, sir -- I don't think I needed you -- right away. But I needed you *quickly* after that. I've needed you since you took me in *hand*." 

And, perhaps, it was simply Laurent's *turn* to pant. "But you were denying yourself."

"I didn't think --" 

"You didn't think your feelings -- any of them? -- were returned." 

Treville *tries* to duck his head -- when Laurent doesn't let him, he stops that and meets his eyes. "I knew you -- liked me. I knew you liked *being* with me. I knew you liked *talking* to me. I. I've wanted." If anything, the flush in his cheeks gets deeper. "I've thought of you as my *other* brother, sir. And. I've thought, at times, that you've felt the same."

For long moments, they are only panting together, only -- 

Laurent *can't* catch his breath, can't think, can't speak, can barely *see* -- 

This -- it's too much, it's -- 

He'd never *imagined* that Treville could ever -- 

And perhaps that's why his hands -- both hands -- are on Treville's wincing face. 

Perhaps that's why he's stroking him, caressing him, *studying* him with his fingertips -- 

"S-sir?" 

"My. Brother?" 

Treville *yips* -- and blushes *hard*. "Please. *Please*. I -- *please*. I love everything about you, you're so incredible in every *way*, I want you to *own* me --" 

"Treville -- I." And Laurent is still panting, still *staring* -- 

He still can't breathe around the pound of his own *heart* -- 

Around the ache of his *need* -- 

There's so *much* -- 

But what does *Treville* need? What *precisely*? 

He licks his lips -- "Treville." 

"Yes, sir, please, sir --" 

"Would you like for me to own you... the way a man owns a hound?" 

"Yes -- no -- I don't --" Treville licks Laurent's *hilt*-calluses, once and once, shivers *violently*, and then looks into his eyes again. "The dog in me wants me to know that men own dogs -- all wrong." 

"Yes?" 

"They shut dogs up in *kennels*, sir. And there wouldn't be *much* wrong with that -- kennels can be warm, full of good smells, that sort of thing -- but the men don't come *see* the dogs. Don't *play* with the dogs. Don't *touch* the dogs --" 

"Unless and until they feel it's time to *use* the dogs for one discrete -- and limited -- task or another. Yes, I see," Laurent says, and nods. He's never before felt *guilty* for the *entirely* vague -- and *limited* -- relationships he's had with the de la Fere family hounds before, but -- 

But now, with Treville searching him so hungrily, so *hopefully* -- 

"You need... stimulation. Affection. Care. You always have, but it's become acute now." 

["I -- yes, sir, but I would never -- I don't want to make you do anything you don't want to *do* --" ]

Laurent blinks -- "You don't know that I want this, as well, Treville? Your senses aren't quite that acute?" 

"Please, I -- I'm not sure. I think I'd have to ask you -- direct questions." 

Laurent nods. "That makes clear, objective -- Treville, I am not simply sexually attracted to you. I have never *simply* been sexually attracted to *anyone*. I am in love with you, and have *been* in love with you..." Laurent's hands shake on Treville's face -- 

A part of him only wants to *move* them, to hide his *unworthiness* -- 

But, in this moment -- that, too, would be unworthy. "I do not know when I lost myself to you, and to Honore --" 

"*Oh* --" And Treville smiles so broadly, so wildly, so *madly* -- 

"Yes, Treville?" 

Treville licks his *fingers* this time -- "It feels -- so right that you love him, too. So perfect. We should all -- we should." 

"The hungriest parts of me agree with that assessment wholeheartedly... little brother." 

Treville grunts and *bucks* -- "Fuck -- *please* --" 

"Please what?" 

"Tell me how to make *all* of you agree, sir!" 

"I am your -- and Honore's -- commanding *officer* --" 

"And I -- *we* -- will do *anything* for you, sir! We'll do it and *love* it -- so long as *you* love it, *too*." 

Laurent's hands are shaking again -- 

He's *panting* again -- 

"Tell me -- how to own you. Tell me what you *want*." 

"You've never --" But Treville flushes hard and *stiffens* for a moment, eyes widening for a moment -- 

"Finish that thought." 

"Please, I -- it can be *anything*. I just want you to touch me more, or let me touch *you*, let me suck you, let me -- let me *sniff* your cock from up close and then suck your balls --" 

"Stop," Laurent says, and raises an eyebrow slowly as he moves one hand to Treville's throat and the other to his hair -- 

He *grips* -- 

Treville *gasps* -- but only as much as Laurent is letting him. 

Laurent nods once. "Now. Tell me what you did *not* say." 

Treville squeezes his *eyes* shut, and -- *most* of Laurent is only marveling: What could it *possibly* be? 

How *could* there be anything that *Treville* could fear saying? At *this* point?

The *rest* of him is merely -- quietly -- noting that the night has been a night of wonders and miracles -- 

That his *life* has been full of wonders and miracles since his brothers, his *true* brothers, and would Honore desire?

Would he truly...?

But he must not distract himself with *that* question *now*. 

*Now*... is for the honestly rueful, honestly *shaky* smile on Treville's face as he says -- "The dog in me..." He licks his lips. "We're not quite the same person, you know? He doesn't *always* want the same things I do --" 

"But sometimes -- most of the time -- he does." 

"I -- yes, sir --" 

"*Now* he does." 

Treville whines again -- 

Shifts on his *feet* -- 

"You've never -- marked me. In any way. That's all. That's -- it's what the dog wants. It's what -- you know, you lead this pack, and --" 

"Pause for a moment." 

"Yes, sir," Treville says, and swallows with even more difficulty than what Laurent's grip on his throat would explain. 

*This* -- "This shames you." 

Treville parts his lips -- and shudders, not shivers. "Yes, sir." 

"This shames you in a way -- you believe that -- somehow -- I will find your desire for this off-putting." 

"More than that. Worse than that." 

Laurent frowns and -- thinks. And blushes. "Treville... how *precisely* do you *wish* to be marked?" 

"I. I would rather not say, sir," he says, low and soft, and his eyes are -- hurt. *Miserable*. It's too -- 

Laurent growls and tightens his grip with both *hands* -- 

"NNK --" 

"Listen to me, little brother: I have no objection to marking you with my urine. There is nothing *off-putting* about you, the dog in you, or the desires you *share* --" 

"Nngh --" 

"Shh." 

Treville nods with *difficulty* -- and his eyes are wide again. So -- 

"Good boy --" 

Treville's lashes *flutter* -- 

"*Focus*." 

He snaps to attention, just like that. 

Laurent -- sighs. "In a moment, I will allow you to breathe and speak once more -- though I will not release you. Do you understand?" 

Treville nods *once*. 

"Good boy. Once you can speak, you will begin answering a few -- *only* a few --- more questions about this fixation. And then I will mark you. Do you understand?" 

Another nod -- 

Treville licks his lips -- 

His smile is so *cautious* -- 

And Laurent -- can't. Not -- 

His kisses Treville, kisses his little *brother*, hauling him close and up onto his toes -- 

Squeezing his throat *tighter* when he groans -- 

Releasing his hair and wrapping his arm around his waist when he *shudders* -- and Laurent has never *done* this, never so much as *tried* to do this, but -- 

He's seen it done, seen passionate kisses again and *again* -- 

Regiments are lively, full, *active* -- 

He's watched Treville. 

He's watched *Honore*, in those few moments before the man had urged the intriguingly *strapping* Yvette behind closed doors again and again and *again* -- 

He uses everything. He licks *into* Treville's mouth, he presses close, he sucks, he urges Treville's tongue to *move* -- it doesn't take much. Treville begins licking and *lapping* at him, crooning into his *mouth* -- 

Shaking *more* -- and that... 

*That* -- 

Laurent quickly finds himself gripping Treville even tighter, *thrusting* into his mouth with his tongue -- 

His hot mouth, his wet *mouth* -- 

Treville is *shaking* -- 

*Suckling* at Laurent's tongue -- 

Working his hips with seemingly helpless speed, helpless *force* -- 

Shaking even *more* -- 

Laurent bites his lips hard -- 

Pulls back and -- no. 

He bites Treville's *mouth* *as* he releases the man's throat -- and when Treville *yelps* into his mouth, it's all Laurent can do not to walk him back against a wall and -- 

Take. 

But... he has questions. 

He pulls *back* -- 

"*Please*!" 

"Shh," Laurent says, and he's panting terribly, wonderfully -- every breath is a taste of his *brother*! "Not yet." 

Treville yips again -- "Yes, sir. I -- I'll be good." 

"You like to be bitten," he says, and *strokes* Treville's throat with his thumb. 

"*Yes*, sir." 

"Does Honore bite you?" 

"He -- we've only made love twice, sir. The first time... um. Was pretty quick. We didn't actually manage to do much with our *mouths*, if you... get my meaning." 

"Hm. I'll have you elaborate on that another time."

Treville looks dazed again, *thrilled* -- "*Yes*, sir --" 

"Did he bite you the second time?" 

"When I begged him for it --" 

"Not before?" 

"No, sir. You -- well. You know how gentle Honore likes to be. He never wants to slip up with his strength." 

Laurent nods thoughtfully. "We'll have to see what can be done to help Honore remember that he need not be gentle with --" 

"Us?"

Laurent blushes again. "I... but you did intimate that Honore *also* desired me..." 

"You're his *brother*, sir. It. It's everything," Treville says, and seems to be trying to *force* the knowledge into Laurent with his gaze alone. 

Laurent strokes Treville's throat again. "Yes. It is. But... we were talking about marking..." 

"Oh -- we don't -- we don't have to --"

"Yes. We do." 

"Fuck --" 

"Shh." 

"Yes, sir," Treville says, and stands straight once more. 

Laurent nods. "Have you wanted Honore to mark you?" 

"I've... with him, I've mostly wanted us to... um. Roll in the same really *foul* things, sir." 

Laurent *blinks* -- 

"It's um. It's *brotherly*." 

"Elaborate on this." 

"Yes, sir. He's -- he's like my *litter*-mate. I want to share everything with him. So... if you could, you know, piss on *both* of us --" 

"Hm." 

"Or if Honore were to piss on me sometimes, and I were to piss on him *other* times --" 

"Hm. Pause." 

"Yes, sir," Treville says, and smiles ruefully. 

Laurent -- lets himself frown, since trying not to have facial expressions has always just made it look like he was glaring indiscriminately at the world. 

"Sir...?" 

"I have more questions." 

"Yes, sir. I'll answer all of them to the best of my ability. I've. I've always loved answering your questions." 

That -- "Is *that* brotherhood for you?" 

Treville smiles softly. "One of the best kinds." 

It's rapidly becoming difficult to *breathe* again -- no. He must have his questions answered. At least -- the most important ones. 

It was long past time to accept that, with Treville at least, he would never have *all* of his questions answered. So. 

He takes as deep -- and *intoxicating* -- a breath as he can -- "Did you want to be marked *before* the All-Mother gave you this?" 

"I -- would rather not answer --" 

"You *will* answer, as you have promised." 

Treville blushes again -- "Yes, sir, of course, sir -- I. The answer is yes. But. Um." 

"Elaborate on your answer, little brother," Laurent says, and strokes down Treville's chest -- 

"Fuck --" 

"Shh. You have your orders," Laurent says, and cups Treville's cock through his trousers -- 

The heat is *blinding* -- 

Laurent is *aware* that he's touching Treville through leather, that it's not *truly* that warm, but -- 

The heat is blinding. 

"Treville." 

"S-sir. The first time I was with you -- just you -- when you were pissing, you were lecturing me. Lecturing me in a *detailed*, *exacting* way -- a *perfect* way -- about the failings of the French Army, and exactly how *you* would improve it, and I wanted. I wanted your cock in my mouth." 

Laurent shudders and shudders and *refuses* to let himself squeeze. But. "I'm. About to lose control." 

"Oh -- sir?"

"I've never..." Laurent licks his lips. "You are aware that I have never made love." 

"Yes, sir, please, sir --" 

"You are aware..." Laurent snarls -- "You deserve the *best* lovers!" 

"Please, sir, *please*, you *are*! You're -- you can *feel* how hard you've made me --" 

"*I'm* too hard to *urinate*!" 

Treville *pants* -- and his tongue is just... a little too long. "I'd like to help you with that, sir..." 

Laurent grunts and squeezes Treville's cock *hard* -- 

Oh -- too *hard* -- 

Treville is *howling* -- 

Laurent pulls *back* -- "Treville, are you --" 

"Yes -- *yes* -- fuck, I -- please do that *again*, sir!" And Treville is grinning broad, bright, wide, *wild* -- 

And still more new vistas are opening before him, before *them*, before *all* of them -- 

"Or -- please. Let me make *your* cock happy, sir. Let me..." Treville's nostrils flare. "Do you have fantasies, sir? Would you like to spend in any particular way?" 

His palm feels *branded* where it's no longer touching -- no. "I. Have watched you making love... many times." 

"You -- really?" 

"I am... so hungry for you," Laurent says, and *flexes* his hand the way he wants to flex it *on* Treville -- 

Treville *croons* -- and drops to his *knees*. 

"Little *brother* --" 

"I promise, sir. This is where I *belong*." 

Laurent's hands *flex* -- "I can't --" 

"You *can* --" 

"Tell me *exactly* what you *want* -- that *isn't* me *urinating*."

Treville blinks up at him as if that was an honestly *confusing* statement -- 

Laurent shudders and winces and -- 

And Treville growls low -- "I *apologize*, sir. I'm an idiot --" 

"*No* --" 

"You don't *know* all of this; it's not second nature to you -- yet. I want your *cock*. I want you to fuck my mouth -- or my throat if you'd prefer --" 

"*NNH* -- I. And then. Once I spend... I will soften. And be able to mark you." 

"Please, sir. Please just -- you don't ever have to pull out of my mouth. I'll *suckle* the piss right out of your cock --" 

"My *God* -- oh. I apologize if that was offensive." 

Treville *barks* a laugh -- "It *wasn't*; I *promise*, I -- mm. Please, sir. Please. You can't do this wrong. Not for me." 

Not, perhaps, if he does it the way Treville *himself* does it with his many, many, *many* young boys... and Laurent is already opening his trousers -- 

His breeches -- 

His *slick* breeches -- 

Treville sways on his knees and *croons* -- 

"Was that. For my scents?" 

Treville nods and nods -- "Please. Please don't wait, sir. Please give me -- all of your big, perfect cock." 

That raises -- still more questions, but Laurent has run out of the ability to ask. He -- 

His *hand* is shaking on his own cock -- 

His *other* hand is shaking on Treville's cheek as he tilts his face up -- 

Just so -- 

"Oh -- sir..."

There is a *staggering* need to -- to *paint* Treville's bitten lips with his own slick -- 

"Nngh -- you -- *sir* --" 

"*Tell* me." 

"Sir, I'm so hard, I'm so *hard* --" 

"*Why*." And Laurent *drags* the drooling head of his cock over and over Treville's mouth -- 

"This. This is marking, too," Treville says, breathless and hungry and *low*, and -- 

And Laurent hears himself make a *sound* -- 

A sharp and *animal* -- 

But that's meaningless against the feel of Treville's mouth when Laurent pushes, when he -- too fast, too *fast*, Treville *never* -- 

Not with his *boys* -- 

But Treville is groaning and nodding, trying to take even *more* of him, shuffling forward on his *knees* -- 

*Yanking* his hands behind his back -- 

Crossing them at the *wrist*, and -- 

And Laurent's cock *spasms* -- 

Spasms in Treville's *mouth* -- 

Treville's lashes flutter -- 

He *drools* -- 

Treville always *smiles* when his boys drool, always -- 

But Laurent can't smile, can't do anything but *shove* in -- 

Treville *croons*, low and hungry, nods more, thrusts at *nothing* -- 

"Oh -- I want to know why this *arouses* you!" 

Treville *focuses* on him, eyes wild and hot and *wicked* -- 

Laurent grunts and shoves in-in-*in* -- 

He can't -- 

He can't *stop* -- 

Suddenly he can't *stop*, and Treville's eyes roll up in his *head*, he *shivers* on his knees, he -- 

He's still pumping his *hips* -- 

He's nearly *writhing* on his knees, but his mouth is shut tight and he -- 

Sucks -- 

Laurent *shouts* and *grips* Treville's head -- 

Treville grips at his own *wrists* -- 

Shakes like -- like -- 

Like his boys shake.

Like -- and some of them spend without touching their cocks, spend only from having their mouths fucked, their *throats* fucked -- 

And from whatever Treville *says* to them. It. 

It had always made clear, objective sense. 

"*Treville*," Laurent says, and *grinds* in -- 

In -- 

*In* -- 

And Treville *stops* writhing and tries to focus, obviously *struggles* to focus -- 

To *give* Laurent his focus -- 

So *beautiful* -- 

Laurent can give no less. "There is *nothing* I don't want with you," he says, and grips Treville's *throat* again-- 

In time to *feel* him croon -- 

"Oh -- my -- my little *brother*. We'll have everything. I -- I want to *take* everything --" 

Another *nod* -- 

"And you want that. You want --" Laurent growls again. "You have been nothing but *clear*," he says, and -- surrenders, just a little more -- 

Thrusts *harder* -- 

Treville *stiffens* -- 

The fear for that *chokes* Laurent for a moment -- 

The *lust* sears his spirit and steals his *breath* -- 

And then Treville goes loose everywhere, everywhere save for his tight, sucking *mouth* -- 

He *croons* again -- 

He croons over and over and *gives* himself -- 

"My -- *mine*!" 

Treville nods as much as Laurent *allows* -- 

And Laurent -- recognizes himself. 

Recognizes his *needs*. 

And what he will *have*. "My -- my little brother," Laurent says, and grips Treville tighter, head and *throat*. "I'm going to. To *fuck* you every chance I'm *allowed* --" 

Treville *chokes* on his croon -- 

Coughs -- 

*Starts* to try to pull back -- 

Laurent snarls *helplessly* -- 

And Treville goes loose again, nods again, opens his beautiful eyes and *begs* -- 

"Mm. My little *brother*. I will. I will. I don't want to *spend*." 

The plea in Treville's eyes grows *acute* -- 

And Laurent pants -- "You want me to. You -- because you want this to stop?" 

Treville's eyes widen in *panic* -- 

He uses his preternatural *strength* to *force* Laurent to let him shake his *head* -- 

"That. That was a goad. On a number of levels," Laurent says, and gasps laughter -- "I *need* you! I. I need your *voice*, but I don't want to lose your hot, tight, wonderful *throat* --" And Laurent snarls again and fucks in -- 

In and in and in and -- 

"*Make* me spend!" 

Treville *blinks* -- 

*Obviously* remembers that he knows -- *comprehends* -- more about this than Laurent ever *could* -- 

And then there's a sweat-slick hand on his *balls* -- 

Cupping and squeezing and *working* his balls -- 

And Treville is *swallowing* around him -- 

Over and over and -- 

Laurent opens his mouth to tell Treville how much he *enjoys* that -- and shocks himself with a *sob* -- 

His *knees* are shaking -- 

He -- 

"Oh -- my -- *oh* -- I loved you when you were a *boy*," Laurent says, *roars*, and *yanks* Treville's head in against his groin -- 

Holds him -- 

Holds him and *grinds* -- 

He can't -- 

He can't *see* -- 

And then Treville squeezes his balls *viciously* and Laurent's *knees* buckle, shocking and quick, as his spend *strikes* him with more force, more raw power, more -- 

He *can't* -- 

He's *shouting* -- 

He's *slamming* into Treville's mouth, over and over, spilling and *spilling* -- 

There's never *been* such pleasure, such *heat* -- 

And when he looks down into Treville's eyes, he finds them thrilled, focused, avid, *studying* -- 

He finds them wide and wild and *his* -- 

Please always -- 

And then Treville swallows *again*, swallows and *slurps*, and Laurent's cock spasms one last time -- 

It shocks a *grunt* out of him -- 

He's *shaking* -- 

And then and *only* then does he realize that, at *some* point, Treville had begun using his *free* hand to hold him *up*. 

That -- 

Well. 

That is *also* a goad, and Laurent promises *both* of them that Treville will enjoy the results of it. For now -- 

For now, Laurent can *stand*, and *breathe* -- 

And pull out of Treville's -- throat, not mouth. Or... hm. 

He pulls out... just a little further. Until the head of his -- barely; and he cannot blame the thing in the slightest -- softening cock is resting on Treville's lower lip. 

Treville shudders and croons -- 

Treville shudders more and *starts* to reach -- and then yanks his hands behind his back again. 

Laurent nods. "Good boy -- though I applaud your initiative in terms of keeping us both from tumbling to the floor..." 

Treville gasps a laugh -- 

"And I missed that sound," Laurent says, and caresses Treville's cheek with as many of his calluses as possible. 

Treville moans. "Please, sir..." 

"Soon." 

"Oh... yes, sir?" 

"Oh, yes. I must only will myself to soften just a little more." 

Treville swallows with a hard click -- and then *yips* a laugh. "You could... teach me how to do that... sometime..." 

"It's quite simple. One must only begin imagining a lifetime of loneliness, privation, and soul-searing cold --" 

"I'm. Starting to want you hard again --" 

Laurent laughs ruefully. "I might have been joking." 

Treville looks at him.

"Hmm. Perhaps we'll discuss the matter later," Laurent says, and drags the tip of his cock *under* Treville's mouth -- 

"Oh." 

And along his cheeks -- 

"Oh. Sir. You're. Softer." 

"I am," Laurent says, and drags the tip of his cock down the bridge of Treville's nose -- 

Treville whines *loudly* and barks *twice* -- 

"Shh." 

"I --" 

"Shh. You mustn't arouse me in this moment, little brother..." 

Treville *strains* as if he's struggling against being *chained* to the floor -- 

It seems as though every *one* of his lean, beautiful muscles is standing out -- 

And Laurent cannot wait. Not now. 

He pushes in --

Treville closes *trembling* lips around him -- 

"Don't suck -- yet." 

Treville nods *once* -- and four tears roll down his cheeks. So -- 

*So* -- 

Laurent shudders as his belly *drops* -- 

He almost *can't* let go enough to -- but then he can, then he *is*, and for a moment it's too strange, too *much* -- 

*Treville* is shuddering -- but then he opens his -- 

His beautiful *eyes* -- 

His beautiful and *damp* eyes, and they're so wide, so full of *gratitude*, so full of grateful *disbelief* as he swallows and swallows and -- 

"I *love* you," Laurent says, and that was more of a growl than a declaration, more of a blurted *demand* than anything -- 

Anything *worthy* -- 

He can't -- "*Suck*!" 

And Treville -- suckles, not sucks, just like he *said* he would, and -- 

And it's wet, even through the wetness of the *piss*. It's *soft*, soft enough to make the sensitivity *exquisite* -- 

He wants to *curse* for the beauty -- 

For the fundamental change in his *worldview* -- 

It -- 

He wants to *caress*, and make *love*, and *that* is what he does, and what he *continues* to do -- long after he stops pissing. 

Long after he can *convince* himself to urge Treville to stop suckling, to leave Laurent's cock *be* for the time being, to -- 

To let Laurent drop to his own knees, and pull Treville close, and nuzzle, and nip at his mouth, and, yes, taste, just taste, just *kiss*, over and over again while Treville sobs and croons into his mouth and bucks into his *fist* -- 

Please, please, always *this*!

Laurent *knows* Treville's stroke from the many times the man has masturbated in *front* of him, and -- 

Oh, it hits him like *artillery* -- every last *one* of those times was an offer, a plea, a drop to his *knees*. 

Laurent can't stop *kissing* for long enough to tell the man that he'll never let him go. Can't -- 

Not even when he's *howling* into Laurent's mouth -- 

Spilling all over Laurent's fist -- 

All over *both* of them -- 

He must *kiss* -- 

But he *will* tell Treville. He'll tell him everything -- and, if necessary, bite every single letter into his skin.

~


	6. Gluttony

6\. Gluttony

Treville is whistling as he jogs up the stairs of Amina's tenement -- 

As he opens the door -- 

As he -- 

Well, *not* as he gets punched in the *face* -- 

What -- 

He's on the *floor* -- 

But there are actually stars occluding his vision, and his teeth feel loosened in his head, which means that it was, in fact, his *Amina-love* who had just punched him, so he gets up slowly -- 

Carefully -- 

*Peaceably* -- 

And yes, that's the sound of her *meanest* growls -- hm. 

He *doesn't* lick the blood off his lips. He lets it drip as it will -- 

The growls get significantly less mean -- 

All right, then. He blinks some of the stars away, raises a *gentle* eyebrow -- 

The growls get meaner again. 

He lowers the eyebrow and lets more blood drip, and, yes, he can *see* his Amina-love, and she's standing in the *doorway* leading into her rooms, and her teeth are showing -- they're sharper than they should be, and -- 

She smells hungry. 

For -- food.

Treville blinks. "Amina-love? What -- you haven't eaten?" 

"What did you *do* to me?" 

"Um..." 

"I am *starving*!" 

"Right, let's get you some --" 

"I have eaten my cupboards *bare*, Jean-Armand!" And *that* -- 

There's *worry* under the anger in her voice, and actual *shame* in her *scents*, and -- that won't do. At all. 

"Right, then, we -- I have no actual clue what's going on, but I know I need to feed my mate," Treville says, leaning in close to her snarling face -- 

"I -- I --" 

"Lick the blood away. It helps when you're hungry." 

She *stops* snarling -- and blinks. 

Treville nods. "I found that out on the last action, Amina-love. We hadn't had time to eat in nearly three days. We'd actually gotten cut *off* from our -- it doesn't matter --" 

"Yes, it *does*, you *arse* --" 

"I'll tell you all about it, *later*. But -- this, now: Kitos was wounded, just a little, and I licked him clean to heal him. It --" 

"It... fed you?" 

"A little, Amina-love. *Enough* that I could get *all* of us some *actual* food," Treville says, and raises his eyebrows. 

"I do not want to *eat* you!" 

"Think of it as letting your mate heal you, mm? You don't *usually* punch me in the mouth. But *some* part of you knew what you *needed*." 

"Fuck -- I -- I --" And she croons and whines and licks him, just licks him, chin and mouth and throat where the runnels of blood had slipped down a little -- 

Treville bites his lip to open the wound a bit more -- 

"Do *not* --" 

"*Suck*." 

"Do not *order* -- *fuck* --" And his Amina-love *grips* his head and gives him the most violent kiss of his existence. 

Treville had always assumed that would come from Laurent, but -- 

Amina laughs into his mouth -- 

Laughs *hard* -- 

And licks and licks and laps until *all* the blood is gone, and the wounds are healed. 

They pull back as one, and Treville caresses her dark, beautiful face, falling in love all over again with the sight of her skin against his own -- 

But then her stomach growls like a *beast* and her eyes flare -- 

"Are you ready to get out of here, Amina-love? We're *going* to get you some food --" 

"None of the *markets* are open -- I have no *money* --" 

"One, you can *always* get street-food in this *general* area -- even *before* you get to the inns and taverns -- " 

"It's too *expensive* --" 

"And *two*, it's *about* time for you to *let* me *take care of my mate*," he says, and *looks* at her. 

She gives him a *mean* look for that -- 

Her fists are balled-up perfectly, ready for him -- 

"You know I'll never *object* to that, but --" 

And then she winces as the scents of her *discomfort* spike -- 

As the scents of her *hunger* spike -- no. 

*No*. "*Fuck* this, Amina-love. Lock up and come with me. *Now*." 

She glares at him for another long moment -- 

Treville *spends* that moment getting hard and *worried* as he wonders if she'll make him *actually* scruff her -- but. 

She slumps, just a little. And locks up. 

And *then* Treville notices that she'd had her little bag with her, the one that goes everywhere *she* does -- 

"You were already ready --" 

"*Shut* it," she says, getting her verve back just that fast. "I was -- going to try to find you," she mutters, and scowls *blackly*. 

Treville rumbles -- 

"Shut it!" 

"Right you are," Treville says, and places a hand at the small of her back, walking them out *quickly* -- 

"I..." 

"Mm?" 

Amina winces and *rubs* her belly, which is just a *little* more rounded than it had been -- "Faster, my mate. I... need --" 

Treville growls and they damned well *run* that quarter-mile or so to the little stand right *there* which *always* has the best kebabs -- 

"Too *expensive*," Amina mutters -- 

"Because they use *good* meat and we *both* know it," Treville mutters right *back*, and then he's damned well buying *six* -- no. He buys *eight* kebabs, because he knows how his Amina-love can eat when she's *non*-violently hungry, *and* he damned well knows how *he* can eat, too. 

And -- 

She eats all of them. 

Right there. 

She -- 

She doesn't even let them walk *away* from the vendor, who is *staring* -- 

She *devours* all of them, just like there hadn't been *anything* in her cupboards for *days*, and Treville *knows* that's not true, because he'd just *been* here on Sunday, eating her black-eyed pea stew. 

And rice. *That* had been tasty -- it always was -- but... something. 

There hadn't been any meat in it, he doesn't think, and sometimes she just *didn't* cook with meat -- 

She used more vegetables, especially that okra stuff that disturbs Reynard so much -- 

Hm. 

*Had* he smelled any meat in her cupboards on Sunday? Maybe aging, a little? 

He frowns. 

She belches, midway through kebab number *ten*, because he's a smart man, and knows when it's time to give his mate *more* meat -- she doesn't actually pause. 

And -- there absolutely wasn't any meat in her place on Sunday, and she gets *paid* on Saturdays and goes *marketing* on Sundays, so that means -- 

That means she couldn't afford any meat this week. 

And *that* means she'd been trying to feed the *two* magical dogs in her... nothing but grains and legumes and vegetables. That... 

Treville licks his lips -- and licks her cheek before tugging on the link between them. I think I know what's wrong, Amina-love... 

(So do *I*, you *arse*.) She keeps eating. 

I... 

(I should not have to constantly feed myself --) She growls and eats. 

And eats. 

And growls low and *menacingly* -- and eats.

Amina-love -- 

(Shut it.) 

It's just that -- 

(Shut it!) 

I *want* to feed you meat! Lots of meat! Fatty, bloody meat -- the *best* meat!

Amina stops eating, for just a moment, as her eyes haze over a little -- 

And she sways on her feet -- 

And she licks her fat-slicked *lips* -- 

Treville cups her -- softer, wonderful -- hips and rumbles in her ear. "We could go back to my manor, Amina-love..." 

"I..." 

"Did you want some venison? Mm? A nice, fat doe?" 

Her tongue peeks, just a little. 

"You could, mm. There are always *countless* rabbits out there. I never hunt as much as I *could* --" 

"Oh..." 

"You could *snack* on them while you *waited* for me to bring down the fattest, freshest deer --" 

"I --" 

"Crunch through their little skulls and suck out their fatty brain-meat -- have you tasted that, Amina-love?" 

She shivers and makes the *softest* little sound as she shakes her head... 

Treville rumbles and nuzzles her. "It's just a little sweet. It's just -- mm. It's there and *gone*. People like *us* can never make it last, mm? But it's worth it while it *is* there." 

"Oh -- Treville." 

"I'll get it for you. *Every* day --" 

"I --" 

"Say. *Yes*." 

She croons, soft and low and -- hurt. 

Treville blinks and sniffs her, sniffs her close, sniffs her *carefully* -- she's not *hungry* anymore, and she's not in physical pain -- 

She's tired; she hasn't been sleeping well -- 

She's still a little too shamed, still -- worried? Treville nips her ear because he *has* to, ignoring the way the kebab vendor and his other customers are doing their best to get *away* from them without actually moving -- "Tell me. Tell me, *please*." 

And -- she curls into him, just a little. She's *clutching* the last two kebabs, and she's trying to keep the greasiest part of her face away from his leathers -- 

Treville pulls her in, holds her, *holds* her -- "My *wife*. Tell me what it is; I'll *fix* it --" 

"It." 

"Mm? Tell me." 

"I was not ready to listen to the animal in me about you, my husband. To..." And she sighs then, rueful and quiet and that *amused* kind of annoyed that she *usually* only gets after he's made her spend, which -- 

"Amina-love...?" 

"I was... I *did* plan to move in with you..." 

Treville rumbles and rumbles -- 

"*Shut* it," she says, but -- there's not much actual heat, and she stays in his arms. And she takes another bite of kebab. 

Treville rumbles more quietly as she chews. 

She swallows -- 

Burps again -- 

Sighs deeply.

Treville strokes her slowly and firmly and and gently and tries not to be the wrong *kind* of pressuring -- 

"I wanted..." And Treville can *feel* her frown -- 

"Mm? What did you want, Amina-love? I'll *give* it --" 

"I *wanted* to be more certain that I *wanted* to spend my life with you!" 

Treville... frowns. 

And licks his lips. 

And -- "Amina-love --" 

"Shut it!" 

"Our *souls* are *literally* bound --" 

"I do not want to *hear* --" 

Treville licks his lips again. "So about the rabbits?" 

Amina -- 

His beautiful, wonderful, *perfect* Amina-love --

She smiles *wryly* as she *tugs* him toward the hostler she knows full well is the only one in this neighbourhood that's *good* enough for Treville to trust with his Éventreur -- "Tell me..." 

"Yes...?" 

Her smile turns wicked, wild, *hot* -- 

Her tongue *lolls* for a moment before she licks her face completely clean in three quick *swipes* -- 

"Tell me more about our brothers' hot *blood*, my brother..." 

"Oh." 

"Just how satisfied *were* you after partaking, mm...?" 

Treville blushes *exactly* like the boy he will *always* be inside -- 

And his Amina-love laughs loud, laughs raucously, laughs *big*, all through the Paris night. 

Treville drinks it in as it echoes off the tenements, and dreams of what it will sound like once he has her home, where she belongs.

~


	7. Jealousy

Treville's rooms in Paris are absolutely bloody huge, and chock full of kind, friendly, open-minded people who are -- at *all* times -- ready, willing, and able to overlook the *extremely* less-than-human behaviour and mannerisms of Treville's -- son. 

And, well, sometimes Porthos thinks about it. 

Sometimes Porthos can't *help* but think about it, even though it's more than a little ridiculous -- Treville *would* do anything to make Porthos more comfortable with the fact that, suddenly, he not only has a father, but that father is a witch who is also a noble who is also Porthos's bloody Captain who is also the man Porthos had wanted to grow up to *be* *anyway*. 

It's a lot, and Treville bloody knows it, and he's invested in making it all *work*, because he's the single most *family*-minded man Porthos has ever met -- and Porthos is including himself -- 

And Treville would do anything to make Porthos more comfortable with it all. 

So, sometimes, Porthos thinks about, oh, *insane* things Treville might do to help Porthos get used to things. 

*Distracting* things. 

Like giving *Porthos* ridiculous magical powers and a ridiculously huge magical dog that wants to jump out and play all the time and all the *other* things he's done that mean that Porthos has had to *stay* in this bloody great house and train in *incomprehensible* ways instead of going to the garrison -- 

Or *anywhere* else -- 

Anywhere at *all* -- 

It's possible that Porthos is feeling the walls close in on him just a little bit. 

Or -- more than a little. 

He's taken to pacing the upstairs halls, since they're emptier during the day and he doesn't have to interrupt any of the staff who are just trying to do their bloody *jobs* -- but. 

The maids have been coming up to 'freshen the curtains' a *great* deal since he'd started that up. 

*Especially* the tall, pretty, and *incredibly* adorable and funny Justine, who -- 

All right, it's possible that everyone else in the house has *sicced* her on him, because she will bloody stand there and tease him and chat with him and joke with him and *determinedly* chivvy him out of his black moods until he's laughing his fool head off. 

Porthos sighs and scrubs his hands over his -- ridiculously neatly-barbered; Alaire does it himself, and if Porthos is a little terrified to give that man a straight-razor, he's not going to *show* that fear in front of his *Daddy* -- face. Justine *has* taught him a great deal about folding linens, and about all the little secrets this house has that not even Treville had mentioned, yet. 

Justine lets him *help* her with all her chores while she's bludgeoning him out of his bad moods, *exactly* like she can tell that he needs that -- 

And no one has *ever* said that Treville doesn't know how to make dispositions, whether or not he's actually there to do it. 

He's been at the palaces for the past few days -- Louis had actually made him *sleep* there last night -- hammering out mission plans for some damned thing the *Army* will be doing, and -- 

That's necessary. 

Fuck if Porthos can't *help* wanting Treville -- or Laurent, or *both* of them, if possible -- involved in *every* military decision *made* in this country, considering the shit that happens when they *aren't* --

But...

It means that there are no long lunches for the *Captain* to come home from the garrison to help Porthos train a little more, and -- keep him company. 

Porthos growls at the crowds passing by on the streets below his window. 

He's in *his* suite, now -- the suite *no* one enters *other* than Treville when he's feeling especially Daddyish -- 

And he's brooding. 

There's *no* other bloody word for it -- 

He wants to be *out* there!

If not at the garrison with his brothers, then at least on the street, in the sun, in the wind, with some nice cool mud under his -- paws. 

*Shit*. 

Porthos growls, rolling his head on his neck the way that honestly *does* help remind him to find his *controls* -- 

All of his bloody -- 

But he can breathe -- 

And think -- 

And think of the kennels, just the kennels, and they've gotten a lot more detailed and *vivid* with *Daddy's* help, *no* one but Daddy's help, who knows *exactly* what his boy needs -- 

Who knows exactly how to *help* his boy with *everything* control means, and *possibly* it's problematic that he's *always* thinking of sex at least a *little* bit at times like these -- 

But, damnit, if he *has* to lock the other half of his *soul* away, then at least he can do it while making sincere promises about what *both* of them will be getting once Porthos *opens* the locks. 

They both -- dog and man -- smile for *that*. 

They may not have gotten the chance to *truly* let themselves off the lead with *Aramis* -- 

They've hardly so much as *marked* him -- 

There's so *much* they can *do*... 

There's so much they *should* do, his dog corrects, and yeah, that's right, that's *absolutely* right, and Porthos is rumbling -- 

Tugging at the collar of the fine, fine clothes that have *nothing* to do with soldiering -- 

The fine, fine clothes he's bloody well teaching himself to wear -- 

The -- 

But... mm. 

Aramis's scents the other day had been so -- perfect. He'd been happy -- *generally* happy, yeah, but also just happy to see *Porthos*, to be with him, to see more of him, to have his *touch* -- 

And mayhap the dog's touch, too. 

He'd grown *hotter* for all the licking and nibbling -- 

For being slammed against the wall *that* way and -- marked. 

Marked in *preliminary* ways, because -- 

There's so much. 

There's so *much*. 

And Daddy hadn't given them the *chance* to do more than that, to *have* more than that. They'd -- trained. 

And then Daddy, Aramis, and Athos had left, and left Porthos *here* -- 

Aramis hasn't been back. 

It's been... 

Just *about* thirty hours. 

The *man* in Porthos has always been -- if not *very* patient -- then *understanding*. When strange things happen? A bloke will sometimes need time to *adjust*. 

It happens to everyone. 

It happens to *everyone*, *damn* it. 

Even -- best mates. 

Best mates who have touched and tasted and -- 

Right, well, now he's pacing and growling and -- gently, *gently* urging his dog to stop urging *him* to go *get* Aramis so they can 'talk this out'. 

They definitely wouldn't be doing any bloody talking if he did that. Assuming he *survived* the journey through the Paris streets without shifting, all the stimulation *combined* with seeing Aramis -- 

*Smelling* Aramis sweaty from his training -- 

Well, he *would* shift *then* -- 

And then, *hopefully*, Daddy would be back from the palaces. 

The alternative, while *incredibly* tempting to think about while stroking himself off -- 

And there's a knock on the outer door of his suite. It.

All right, no, he can pull his *mind* out of his *trousers* and -- train. 

*Use* his senses against the scents of the launderer Daddy's staff thinks is best for the curtains, and the one they think is best for the sheets -- 

Against his own scents of arousal -- 

Against his own scents of rising, *spiraling* arousal -- *shit* -- 

He's walking, *stalking* toward the door -- 

He can't -- 

He *can't* -- 

And then he hears it, in the hall: That quick, sharp inhale that means *Aramis* is a little nervous about what he's doing, that means he's not certain -- 

And Porthos realizes that he's been *smelling* Aramis all along -- 

That -- 

*Fuck* -- 

He *stops* walking, and he takes a *deep* breath -- arousal, yeah, but a *lot* of nervousness, a lot of *uncertainty* -- frustration, too. 

Right, all right, Aramis *definitely* isn't here to *immediately* jump down Porthos's trousers, and that means -- 

Porthos's dog snaps at him and *glares*, and that -- 

All right, that's a *problem*, but -- 

But Porthos knows how to deal with this, too. He thinks, for a moment, of all the *many* times he's soothed Aramis, *calmed* Aramis, stroked down those ruffled feathers -- no matter how and *why* they've been ruffled -- in the interest of getting the man on the same page with him. 

And then he raises a very metaphorical eyebrow at his dog -- 

After a moment, his dog grumbles his *bad*-natured agreement and allows himself to be locked away again, and -- and. It's every kind of obvious in the *universe* that Porthos has a limited amount of time to *get* Aramis on the same page with him before his dog stages the world's stickiest rebellion. 

Porthos winces -- and opens the door. 

Aramis blinks at his expression. "My -- Porthos?" 

"Don't even think about correcting that, love. I'm --" Porthos shakes his head and gestures Aramis in before closing the door behind him. 

He tries and *fails* to not flare his nostrils a half-dozen times -- 

"Aramis --" 

"What is *wrong*, my Porthos? Are you ill?" And Aramis moves close, so *close* -- 

Cups Porthos's chin, leans in to study Porthos's *eyes* -- 

"Tell me your symptoms --" 

Porthos snorts hard -- 

"*Porthos* --" 

"*Crippling* bloody arousal -- since right about the time you walked in the *house*," Porthos says, tugging Aramis's hand away from his chin, stepping back, and raising an eyebrow. 

"I. What...?" 

"I could smell you, love. I didn't *know* I was smelling you right *away*... so I didn't think there was anything particularly *strange* about the fact that I suddenly started fixating on *you* and *sex*." 

Aramis opens his mouth -- 

Flushes *hard* -- 

And *closes* his mouth. "I... see," he says, and licks his lips, and winces -- "My Porthos, I came to *speak* with you --"

"I know, love," Porthos says, and raises the hand he's *not* using to hold Aramis's. "I can smell that, too." 

Aramis blinks. "But -- if you could --" 

"I could *not* smell you that clearly before you got to the door," Porthos says, and smiles ruefully, and raises his eyebrows. 

Aramis inhales much more *relievedly*. "Yes, my Porthos, I *understand*. I..." *He* smiles ruefully. "I am not best pleased with myself for breaking off training..." 

Porthos shivers, just a little, and squeezes Aramis's hand. "It's good to see you, love. For *any* reason." 

There's a pause -- 

Just a little one -- 

"This is so?" 

And the Porthos he was a week ago would've probably laughed and *cuffed* Aramis a little, but he still would've *said* -- "I love you. I always have." 

Aramis shivers hard. "There is -- such *weight* to your words --" 

"D'you feel me more, love?" 

"I feel you in my *skin* --" 

"Not any *deeper* than that?" 

Aramis *grunts* for that, eyes wide and just a little -- worried. 

They both know he's *closer* to being on Porthos's page, though, so -- the dog in Porthos is *provisionally* mollified, even when Porthos raises his free hand and says: "We can leave that, for now." 

Aramis narrows his eyes at him. "Only for now...?" 

"That depends on you, love," Porthos says, and doesn't look away from Aramis's eyes for a moment. 

Aramis *pants* -- "Not -- on both of us?" 

Porthos brings Aramis's hand to his mouth and -- sniffs it. He doesn't kiss, and he doesn't *lick*, not even when the scents of sweat and leather and *gunpowder* make his mouth water. He has control. And -- "I already know what I want, love..." 

A swallow -- "Everything you want?" 

That -- Porthos laughs quietly, since it's the only way he's found to *avoid* barking his laughs sometimes.

"That was an amusing question?" 

"Yes," Porthos says, and squeezes Aramis's hand again -- 

Tugs him further into the sitting room, toward the very, very comfortable couch -- 

"Oh -- yes?" 

"Please." 

"Then yes, my Porthos, but tell me --" 

"It was *amusing*," Porthos says, and sits down on the side of the couch nearest the little end table with the tray of wine and water. He pours for both of them -- and gives up and barks a laugh, watching Aramis try and fail to repress the smallest *possible* shiver as *he* sits down. 

Not close enough. 

Porthos passes him wine. 

"Thank you --" 

"It was funny as *hell*, love --" 

"*Why* --" 

"Because there will never -- *ever* -- be a time when I know enough about you, and my desires about you, and my desires *around* you, and my desires *for* you... that I know *everything* I want." 

Aramis stares at him.

Porthos raises his eyebrows. 

"Am I so -- strange?" 

Porthos cocks his head to the side before he can stop himself, but he *can* stop himself from flaring his nostrils -- he *has* Aramis's scents already. "You're... unsure." 

"Yes, you know this --" 

"You're worried that you're *too* strange for me --" 

"*Porthos* --" 

"You never could be, love. You never *have* been." 

"Then --" 

"You're *big*, love. You're..." Porthos rumbles helplessly -- stops himself with a shake -- "Fuck, give me..." 

"I *apologize* --" 

"No. Don't apologize. This is important," Porthos says, and breathes -- 

And breathes -- 

And the dog in him recognizes Aramis's *need* for Porthos to *speak* -- there. "You're big, like I said. Your mind is bigger. Your heart is bigger. Your *soul* is bigger. Everything about you *dwarfs* the average person on the street -- and the *vast* majority of the *above*-average people," Porthos says, and smiles wryly. "I *don't* think you should expect me to have explored the whole *sphere* of you in just a few years, love." 

"I --" Aramis looks down and blushes *hot* -- 

He's smiling -- 

He's laughing just a little wildly --

And Porthos reaches over and strokes his cheek because he *needs* to. "I'm not *altogether* sure there's just the *one* sphere --" 

"My *Porthos* --" 

"Care to clear that one up?" 

And, when Aramis looks up -- his smile is young. 

Broad and sweet and -- 

And a part of Porthos is only looking for the scents of melon, for the scents of the really *questionable* taverns that are, really, the *only* ones which would *let* drunken Musketeers in to *shoot* things off each other's *heads* -- 

"My Porthos...? What are you thinking?" 

Porthos grins. "You don't look at me like *this* all that often, love. I was thinking about the other times when you have." 

Aramis's *breath* hitches -- "You were thinking of me placing my *life* in your strong, capable *hands*." 

"Oh -- shit." 

"No? You were *not* thinking of this?" 

Porthos -- growls, helpless and low and *hungry* -- 

"My *Porthos* --" 

"*Stop*," Porthos says, and turns *away*, stares at the *floor* -- 

And Aramis inhales in an entirely different way. A *wrong* way -- 

Porthos is a *fool*, an *animal*, an *arsehole* -- 

"I think, perhaps... you are berating yourself," Aramis says in a *quiet* voice. A steady, even -- 

"Don't --" 

"You must stop this, my Porthos." 

"I need *control* --" 

"I think -- no. I *know* that your father would tell you that this is not the way to get it." And -- 

Porthos can hear Aramis's heart pounding -- 

Porthos can smell Aramis's *arousal* -- 

He knows Aramis is nowhere *near* as steady as he's bloody pretending to *be* -- for him. 

For *him*, because Aramis knows he *needs* it, because Aramis has *always* given *everything* for him, everything he *could* give and more -- 

Everything -- in Porthos's hands. 

Porthos takes a shuddering breath -- 

And another -- 

And another and another and *another* after that, until *they're* a little bit more steady, and even, and he can *think* about Aramis's strong hand on his shoulder -- 

Aramis that much closer on this bloody *couch* -- 

Until he can *think*. "Thank you," he says, low and formally. 

"My Porthos may have everything of me. Anything," Aramis says, just as formally. 

Porthos narrows his *eyes* -- "I think. I think I need us to speak about what *you* need us to speak about, love," he says, and laughs quietly, and turns to look at the most beautiful man in the world again. 

"I..." 

"Please." 

Aramis smiles ruefully. "Yes, my Porthos. I had... concerns, after the other night. *Our* night." 

"I figured that..." 

"I spoke about them with Athos, because, at first, I could not quite..." Aramis licks his lips and frowns. "You are not angry with me for this." 

Porthos blinks. "For..." No, he's lost. "Why would I be angry with you for speaking with Athos, love? You needed his help sorting things out in your head, yeah?" 

"*Yes*, but --" There's something almost *adorable* about the sound of Aramis's growls now that he's been changed, and Porthos is never, ever going to say that. 

"Tell me, love. Let's work it through --" 

"You -- no," Aramis says, and stops, and takes a breath of his own. 

Porthos nods encouragingly -- 

And then Aramis squeezes Porthos's hand *firmly*. "My *Porthos*," he says, in the tones he tends to reserve for when he's trying to teach Porthos something when Porthos is *extremely* drunk -- "I was *supposed* to come to *you*." 

Porthos frowns and opens his mouth -- 

Aramis narrows his *eyes*, which is bloody ominous -- 

Especially since Porthos's *dog* wants to break *out* and do some convincing -- 

"Right, let's -- do this this way. Let's -- uh. Well, let me just say this: Every time *you* stop being calm and relaxed with me, the *dog* in me wants to calm you down himself. So um -- please." 

"I -- have many --" 

"Questions, yeah, I know, but let's not ask them, *yet*?" 

Aramis *obviously* struggles not to frown -- 

The dog *paws* at the locks on the kennels -- 

"I *promise* that I will --" 

"I will be calm. I will not ask *those* questions --" 

"*Thank* you --" 

"*Why* do you not know -- no. The point is *that* you did not know that I was supposed to come to you with my questions, with my concerns, with my *confusion* --" 

"I --" 

"And so you were *not* angry with me -- and are still not angry with me?" 

"Absolutely not, and --" 

"Even though I *eased* my concerns *with* Athos instead of doing this thing with *you*." 

And that. 

Everything in Porthos -- pauses. Including the dog. 

He flares his nostrils -- 

He -- 

Aramis raises an *eyebrow* -- no. 

"Love, when you say you *eased* your concerns with Athos..." 

Aramis flares *his* nostrils -- and nods, eyes suddenly wild and pleased. "He did *not* fuck me, my Porthos --" 

Porthos *coughs* -- "Uh --" 

"Do not pretend you were not thinking this thing!" 

"I -- all right, my *dog* was thinking that, because the *man* in me knows Athos a little bloody *better* than that --" 

"I like the dog better than the man!" 

Porthos *snarls* as the dog in him starts to *throw* himself against the locks -- "Don't. Say that. Again." 

Aramis *grunts* -- 

*Flushes* -- 

And lowers his head. "Yes, my Porthos. I apologize, my Porthos." 

Porthos breathes -- 

Porthos *pants* until he *can* breathe -- it takes a little while. 

Too bloody *long*, but -- he has Aramis's bloody wonderful scents. His *hot* scents, his hungry-curious-*thrilled* -- 

"Look up, Aramis." 

"Yes, my Porthos," Aramis says, and *obeys*, blinking and wide-eyed and almost *dazed*-looking -- so beautiful. 

"You liked that." 

"Yes, my Porthos," Aramis says, and squeezes Porthos's hand *gently*. 

"Noted. Ask a question." 

"Yes, my Porthos. I... it seems you have less control *now* than you did when we were making *love*. I. I am very curious about this." 

Porthos pants -- 

Remembers the taste -- *all* the *particular* tastes -- of the sweat in Aramis's cleft -- 

"My dog... hadn't finished coming to me, yet. Not that night. I was still *mostly* human." 

Aramis blinks *rapidly* -- 

*Obviously* starts thinking about all the growling and biting -- 

He *frowns* -- 

And Porthos shows his *teeth*. "Love. Think hard about the fact that I only made you bleed when *you* begged for it." 

Aramis's jaw *drops* -- 

"That we fucked face to *face*." 

"I --" 

"That? We weren't. Bloody. *Tied*." 

Aramis *grunts* -- and then looks at Porthos's crotch. Just -- 

Well, he's *staring* at it -- 

And Porthos really, *really* didn't think that conversational gambit through. 

"Look *up*." 

"I --" 

"*Do* it." 

"All *right*, my Porthos," Aramis says, and finally -- it feels like a finally -- obeys. "But -- you must tell me..." 

"I'll answer *all* your questions --" 

"You have -- a knot?" 

"I do." 

"All -- even when you are not shifted into a dog?" He looks *down* again -- 

"Aramis --" 

"I am looking! At your face. Your beautiful -- please *tell* me!" 

Porthos -- yips. Helplessly -- 

And Aramis grins and squeezes his hand. 

"I love you with *all* of myself --" 

"I love *you*, but --" 

"Yes, I have the knot all the time. So does Daddy --" 

"He does *not*! We have *seen* --" 

"He was glamoured. Also, my knot was growing *in* the other night --" 

"It -- I am *incensed*!" 

Porthos blinks. "With...?" 

"With both of you! You should have *told* me this thing! And -- all right, perhaps the Captain has lacked *opportunities* to be more honest about his anatomy, but --" 

Porthos *coughs* -- 

"My Porthos, I was right *there*! Making *love* with your beautiful cock! You could have told me all about it, and shown me -- *Athos* had to tell me that your sheath was not as sensitive as a foreskin!" 

"Wait, wait, you talked about *that* with him?" 

That wild and *hot* look comes back into Aramis's eyes -- 

That *pleased* look -- 

"For fuck's *sake*, Aramis!" 

"*Now* my Porthos sees good sense --" 

Porthos growls low and -- no. No. *Control* -- 

He just needs -- 

He has to answer Aramis's *questions* -- and. Aramis's strong, hard hand is in his *hair* -- 

Stroking his hair -- 

Dragging through it the way Daddy does -- no.

When Daddy strokes through his hair, it always feels like he's drugging *both* of them, somehow. When *Aramis* does it...

It's slow and somehow *thoughtfully* possessive, somehow -- 

It's *hungry*, and *caressing*, and *exactly* like the man has thought about doing this -- *just* this -- for some insane length of time *without* doing it -- 

It's bloody perfect. Porthos rumbles. 

"My Porthos likes this?" 

"Love it. *Absolutely* love it." 

"It helps bring you... calm?" 

Porthos barks a laugh. "It does, yeah. Not sure how it would work to have you petting me in public, though..." 

"I will wait until we are very *stupidly* drunk, of course." 

Porthos snorts and lets his eyes slip closed as the dog curls up within him, enjoying Aramis's closeness. "You do that, love. I -- mm. Ask questions." 

"I believe *you* have questions, my Porthos." 

And that -- is true. He frowns a little -- 

The dog in him lifts his great bloody head -- 

"Athos." 

"Yes, my Porthos." 

"What *exactly* did you need to talk to him about. What -- what *about* the other night sat wrong with you." 

"I..." 

"Don't dance around, love. Just tell me." 

"I am worried... that it will make you lose your control in a way that will upset *you*. I must tell you, first, that your loss of control will *not* upset *me*." 

Porthos -- breathes. 

And breathes -- 

And *asks* his dog to *please* bloody let him not *hurt* his love, *their* love -- 

His dog wants him to know... 

Porthos shudders once, all over, and brings the hand Aramis isn't petting him with to his mouth. 

Sniffs it. 

*Licks* it, just as much as he *wants* -- 

"My Porthos..." 

"I love you. I *need* you." 

"Yes, and I feel the *same* --" 

"And I need you to know that the *dog* in me needs *us* to know -- that he sees you as our mate," Porthos says, and meets Aramis's beautiful eyes -- 

Watches him pant and *stare* -- and narrow his eyes. "You must stop letting me get *away* from you, my Porthos..." 

Porthos grunts -- "*Aramis* --" 

"You must stop --" Aramis growls again, and it's not adorable in the *least*. "*This* is what I spoke with Athos about. *This* is my *concern*." 

"*What* -- *tell* me --"

And Aramis leans *in*, close and -- 

They're bloody nose to *nose* -- 

They're breathing each other's *breath* -- 

Aramis is *gripping* Porthos's hair -- "I lied to you for *years*, my Porthos --" 

Porthos *snarls* -- 

"And then? When you *finally* demanded the truth? When you finally *forced* the truth from my lips?" 

"What. What *is* it --" 

"You *rewarded* me for my lies. You touched me *softly*. *Gently*. You cossetted and *caressed* me -- only biting when I begged! *How* am I to learn my lesson, mm? *How* am I to feel *claimed* by my *mate* -- NNGH --" 

The fact that it *doesn't* feel right to grip Aramis by the throat and *shake* him feels meaningless. Like -- 

Like an *afterthought* -- 

Like something that will be *explained* to him by the people with bigger, faster brains once all the *confusing* business is *done*. 

For now -- 

For now, he has Aramis's *wild* smile as Porthos lifts them *both* off the couch to their feet -- 

His peeking pink *tongue* -- 

Porthos bites Aramis's cheeks, his chin -- 

His *shoulder* through his *leathers* -- he tears them, and feels Aramis try to gasp -- 

Feels it in the palm of his *hand* -- 

Aramis had always wanted to put his life in Porthos's *hands* -- 

And suddenly it's all too much, too maddening, too -- 

He's rock-hard and *aching* and he can't bloody *breathe*, and he needs Aramis to feel that, to *know* that, to -- *have* that, and it's the easiest thing in the world to *tear* through the laces on Aramis's trousers -- 

To make him try to gasp *again* -- 

To do the same with his *slick* breeches -- 

To *take* his hard, pretty prick in hand and -- squeeze, not stroke -- no, squeeze *hard* *and* stroke -- 

And Aramis throws his head back -- 

His mouth opens in a silent *scream* -- 

Porthos is holding him up by the *throat* still -- 

"I want so bloody *much*, Aramis!" 

Aramis nods frantically, *needily* -- so -- 

So hungrily. So hungry for his *punishment*, and Porthos can bloody give him just that. He strokes him once more -- 

Twice -- 

Five more times until that cock starts *jerking* in his fist a little, and then he gets his fingers back down to the base, turns his *nails* in, and *claws* his way up just as he eases his grip on Aramis's *throat* -- 

A gasp -- 

A choke -- 

And Aramis sobs and *wails*, wails like a *child*, wails like he'd done in the moments before he'd *spent* that night, that beautiful *night*, and Porthos hadn't thought, hadn't *known*, but -- 

Will he want this all the *time*? 

*Can* Porthos -- no. If Aramis *wants* it, he'll bloody well *get* it. Porthos claws his way *down* -- 

"P-*Porthos*!" 

Porthos squeezes *violently* and tosses his Aramis *off* again for a little while, making his eyes gleam when Aramis whimpers and *shakes* -- 

"Please! *Please*, my Porthos!" 

"What are you *begging* for, love. Mm? You *might* get it..." 

"Please, I -- I will spend!" 

"Well, I don't think you *should* -- yet," Porthos says, and moves his hand to Aramis's bollocks and squeezes *viciously* hard -- 

Aramis *howls* -- 

"*Human* sounds!" 

Aramis *chokes* -- "I -- I *apologize*! I'm sorry! I'm so --" 

"Shh..." And Porthos walks him, moves him, *shoves* him -- back to the couch. *Over* the couch. "Hold the cushions for me, love." 

"Yes -- I -- *yes* --" And Aramis obeys -- 

"*Good* boy," Porthos says, and *yanks* down Aramis's trousers and breeches -- 

And stares at Aramis's beautiful, perfect -- 

Round and muscular -- 

So -- 

But the oil is in the *bedroom*, and they've already bloody *established* that fingering Aramis wide open for Porthos's *prick* is *anything* but punishment. *So*. "Spread. Your. *Legs*." 

"*Yes*, my Porthos!" 

Fuck, fuck -- *no*, don't think, don't get lost, don't get lost in all the musky-steamy-perfect *scents* -- 

The dog is already nosing *in* -- no. Say it. "You should know, love," Porthos says, reaching between Aramis's legs and tugging his cock *back* -- 

"*Unh* -- I -- yes -- yes, please, *tell* me, *please*, my Porthos --" 

"The dog in me is already shoving his muzzle *right* up your perfect little *arse*." 

"*I*!" 

"He's already licking you *deep*. Licking you wet and nasty and -- mm. *Hungry*," Porthos says, and rubs the worst, the *hardest* of his calluses all *over* that sensitized cock --

"He -- h-he does not wish... to..." 

"He wants to fuck you, all right," Porthos says, *holding* Aramis's cock against his left hilt-callus and smacking down *hard* with his right -- 

Aramis *yells* -- 

Writhes -- 

Yells *again* -- 

"Be *still*." 

"*Fuck*! I will!" And he damned well does it -- 

"Good *boy*," Porthos says, and rubs on that cock a little more. 

"Ah -- *ah* --" 

"Like I said, he wants to *fuck* you... but he *needs* to lick you *first*." 

"Please --" 

"And the fact that we're doing *this* instead of *either*? Doesn't make a single lick of sense to him, at *all*," Porthos says, and smacks down hard *twice*. 

"*AHN* -- PLEASE!" 

"Please *what*." 

Aramis opens his mouth and *sobs* -- 

Two *tears* fall -- 

"I -- I don't --" 

"*Talk*, Aramis!" 

"Please, my Porthos! Does it make sense to *you*!" 

Porthos rumbles and rubs and rubs and *rubs* that pretty, rock-hard, and *sticky* cock. "You'd better believe it does, love. See, I *get* it now. I left you all *confused* the other night. I left you -- mm. I left you feeling... I guess, maybe, a little *unfinished* --" 

"Yes! *Yes*! And I know you did not mean to --" 

"I *never* would have, love. Not *ever*," Porthos says, and squeezes *hard* -- 

And strokes -- 

Aramis *whimpers* and *shakes* -- 

"Never leave my love feeling *wrong*." And Porthos *stops* stroking and goes back to rubbing, sensitizing, working him *up* -- 

"Please! *Please*!" 

"You just have to *teach* me these things, love. Show me how to do it -- do *you* -- *right*. I *promise* I want to learn." 

"I -- I --" 

"I *always* --" He *smacks* -- "Want to *learn* -- " He *smacks* -- "From *you*." And he smacks three times *fast* -- 

Aramis *keens* -- 

More *tears* fall -- 

And Porthos is harder than he's ever been in his *life* -- he's just also *thinking* at a level he never would've thought was *possible* when he was this hard. It's -- 

Aramis is bent for him. 

*Spread* for him. 

Taking his touch, his slaps, his strokes, his -- his *pain*, and now Porthos can't stop himself from giving him more from moment to moment. More squeezes, more *caresses* -- 

More *strikes* when Aramis throws his head back and wails again -- 

*Again* -- 

And they both know he's close to spending again, that he's close to giving Porthos *everything*, even for *this* treatment -- or maybe especially so. 

That's a mystery which hasn't been solved, yet, but it *will* be.

Under Porthos's hands. 

*Working* hands, and it's everything bloody perfect to smack those *bollocks* again and again and again and *again* until they're red, until they're swollen, until they're creeping up toward Aramis's body and Aramis is sobbing and shaking his head and begging all at *once*. 

And then -- 

And *then* Porthos can open *his* trousers and breeches, and nestle himself in that sweaty-hot cleft, and -- "Sometimes a *bad* boy gets punished by getting *used*, love." 

And Aramis *chokes* on a gasp and *bucks* -- 

And Porthos gets his angle *by* thrusting -- 

Thrusting and shoving and *working* against that hot skin, that *sleek* skin -- until every push glances the pointy, *pointy* tip of his cock against Aramis's rim -- 

Still just a little *swollen* from the other night -- 

Still just a little *soft* -- 

And the dog is bloody well paying attention to *this*, but Porthos just needs -- 

Just *needs* -- 

He's so *hard*, and Aramis is moaning so low, so hungry and *low* -- 

His rim is *flexing* with every one of Porthos's thrusts -- 

The tip is slim enough to slip *in* just a little -- 

Just a *little* -- 

Get a little -- 

Squeezed -- 

Porthos *snarls* again and grips Aramis's hips -- 

Squeezes his *hips* and thrusts faster, just faster, he needs to *spend* -- 

"My Porthos... must use me as he sees *fit*," Aramis says, and his voice is so low, so breathless, so *hoarse* -- 

"Aramis --" 

"My Porthos must always... put me in my *place* –" 

"HNH -- *don't* --" 

"You will always be the man I trust the *most*, my Porthos." 

"*Fuck* --" 

"I will always be in your *hands* --" 

"Fuck -- *Aramis* --" And the tip is in, the tip is in too *deep* -- 

Aramis *croons* and *clenches* -- and spends, just like that, just *for* that, shaking like a leaf and gasping and clenching *more* -- 

Wetting down the *couch* -- 

*Sobbing* -- 

And that's it, that's everything, Porthos can't bloody *see* -- 

Porthos is howling and howling and spilling, *fighting* the need to shove in, to do more than *rut* the little distance he's already in, to get squeezed and *massaged* right on the tip, right on the -- 

So bloody *sensitive* -- 

And -- 

"*Yes*, my Porthos, *yes*!" 

And if the shift takes him now, they're *both* bloody *doomed* -- "Stop -- *clenching*," Porthos says, and that's practically fucking *chewed* out of his mouth -- 

He can feel Aramis *pause* as he *obviously* bloody *thinks* about that order -- 

"I'll. *SHIFT*." 

Aramis grunts and flexes *open* -- 

Everything *in* Porthos *ignites* even more, and he's rutting *harder*, just that little bit *deeper* -- 

Aramis is grunting for every *stroke* even though Porthos can smell his *pain* -- 

And that -- that's enough to slow him down. 

To *stop* him -- and the dog, too. 

Aramis -- well, Aramis makes a bloody *mournful* sound -- 

But Porthos knows the man better than he did an hour ago. Now doesn't he. He bends over and covers Aramis, giving him a bit more of his *weight* -- 

Aramis *grunts* -- and moans, low and pleased. And then gasps *delightedly* when Porthos bites the mark he'd *already* left on the back of Aramis's neck and digs his teeth *right* in. 

"Oh, my *Porthos*..." 

Porthos wraps his arms around Aramis's chest for good measure -- and squeezes tight. 

"*Mm* -- oh, yes --" 

This would be better if *all* of my cock -- and my knot -- were inside you right now -- 

"I..." 

And if I were *actually* crushing your chest a little -- 

"Better for *which* of us, my Porthos?" 

Both of us, according to my dog, who, if I recall correctly, you like better than me. 

"I... hm." 

Yes, love? I'm listening. 

Aramis's soul -- his entire *self*, now that the dog is satisfied enough that Porthos can focus outside of himself a little more -- is a glower. 

Porthos licks the back of his neck -- 

Aramis shivers -- and the glower fades to something softer and one fuck of a lot more unsure. 

Porthos growls a little helplessly and pulls out of the bite. "Tell me what's wrong, love."

"I -- yes, my Porthos. You needed me, when you were making love to my arse. You needed me to... help you find your control." 

Porthos winces. "Yeah, I did." 

"What would have happened if I had *not* done this well enough?" 

"The dog would've made me thrust deeper, and fuck you that way. Or possibly I would've shifted into the dog and had you *that* way. Even more than I already *did*." 

"Without... lubrication." 

"Yeah. I --" 

"You will not apologize for this, my Porthos," Aramis says, and his voice is quiet, but steady and sure. Still --

"Aramis. You have to bloody let me --"

"*No*."

Porthos *yips* and stands straight again, too shocked to even snarl -- 

And Aramis nods and folds his arms under his head. "I goaded you many times today. I goaded you *despite* you *asking* me many times -- *begging* me -- to help you keep your control. Despite knowing that you *needed* --" 

"Don't *blame* yourself, love --" 

"I am *not*, my Porthos. I am merely asking us *both* to recognize certain salient *facts*," he says, and Porthos can *feel* that eyebrow raise. "*You* do not have full control of your powers, your strength, your urges, your desires, or the dog in you. *You* require the help of your loved ones to help you keep your control. *I* knew all of these things before I came here today. *You* reminded me of these things multiple times once I *was* here. *I*? Chose to ignore them. *Multiple times*. *Including* once your beautiful cock was *out*." 

Porthos shudders *hard* -- 

"Do you *disagree* with this." 

"I can't -- I can't *lose* you!" 

Aramis stiffens, all *over* -- 

"I --" 

And then Aramis turns to look back at Porthos, as much as he can. "You cannot lose me, my Porthos. *You cannot lose me*. And I *will* not lose *you*." 

Porthos blinks --

And thinks, a little, about what being mated -- honestly *mated*, like his *Mum* had been to Daddy -- might mean. 

The dog inside him wants him to know that he's the slowest *possible* pup -- 

The dog inside him still wants to *mount Aramis without lubricant*, though, so he really needs to bloody *shut it* -- 

"What are you thinking, my Porthos?" 

"I --" Porthos smiles ruefully. "I'm arguing with the dog in me. He still *really* wants to mount you --" 

"I have no objections --" 

"-- even though the lubricant is nowhere *near* your arse *yet*, love." 

"I..." Aramis winces. "This is how we get into trouble. Yes, I see. Perhaps -- I do not wish for you to pull out, yet." 

Porthos flares his nostrils. "I was smelling your pain *while* I was spending, love. I smell more of it now." 

"But you are here, and close, and inside me, my Porthos. That -- you must know, I have dreamed this -- even *this* way -- many times," Aramis says, and smiles ruefully. 

Porthos -- catches his breath. "I love you." 

"And I you." 

"How's this: The *second* I pull out, I'm hauling you into the bedroom to begin slicking you up *properly* for my cock, because the fact of the matter is that today is the *last* day you're going to spend most of *not* slick for my cock," Porthos says, and raises his eyebrows. 

"Oh -- you mean this thing!" 

"I *truly* do. I've had that fantasy -- well. I wouldn't say it's worn *thin* with use. It's got some nice, tough calluses at this point." 

And Aramis laughs brightly, sweetly, *beautifully* -- 

"C'mon, let me, I need to *hold* you properly, too --" 

"Oh, my Porthos, *yes*, yes, do it -- nnh --" 

"That's right, love," Porthos says. "*Feel* my grip on your beautiful hips. Feel me... and breathe with me." 

"Oh..." 

"Shh. Just breathe," Porthos says, and -- guides his love, just a little. 

Maybe a little the way his love has been guiding *him* -- but. That's always been *exactly* what he's wanted from a relationship -- 

That's always been the very best *thing* -- 

The dog in him is calling him slow again, but Porthos doesn't *have* to listen -- much -- 

He breathes, and he breathes, and, when Aramis nods, he starts pulling out -- nice and slow. It only takes a moment. 

Aramis shivers. "Is there..." 

"No blood, love. We were -- really fucking lucky," Porthos says, and hauls his love up and *close* -- 

"*Mm* -- you were controlling yourself even while you were *spending*, my Porthos!" 

Porthos nuzzles into that hair and snuffles and sniffs -- "Not enough for the man in me. Too *much* for the dog in me. " 

"My Porthos." 

"And for the man in *you*, yeah, I know. We'll work on that once we've got you slick more often than not," Porthos says, and licks Aramis's ear -- 

"Oh, yes --" 

And *nips* Aramis's ear -- 

"Please --" 

And walks them *both* into the bedroom -- where Aramis *immediately* pulls away from him -- 

Walks around -- 

*Examines* the furnishings and such -- 

Porthos *considers* clearing his throat -- 

"But you will not!"

"But I will not, yeah, you're right," Porthos says, laughing and stripping down the rest of the way -- 

Grabbing the little pot of oil that he could *smell* was in the top drawer of the little table beside the bed --

"You..." 

"Mm? What is it, love?" And Porthos settles back onto the bed, back against the finely-carved headboard, one knee up -- 

Aramis stares at him with naked, *burning* lust. 

That. Porthos *barks* a laugh. "Love, come *over* here --" 

"I..." 

"What *is* it?" 

"You do not sleep here, in this room." 

"Mm? Oh, no. I keep my things in this suite, but --" 

"You *sleep* in *Treville's* suite," Aramis says, and nods once, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully *and not coming to bed*. 

"That's right, but --" 

"I have -- a question for you." 

"I'd like to answer it with you in my *arms*, Aramis," Porthos says, and raises his eyebrows. 

"I -- one moment. Please," Aramis says, and smiles ruefully, crookedly -- but still a little firmly. And *that*... 

"You... still think I need a bit more training. Don't you." 

Aramis's eyes *glitter* for a moment -- and then he grins. "My mother, my good mother, she was always very clear that such a thing was a *lifetime* commitment, my Porthos." 

Porthos laughs hard -- and it even sounds mostly human. He bows and flourishes from his seated position. "The point is yours, love." 

"I thank you --" 

"Ask your questions." 

"Yes, my Porthos," Aramis says, and moves up to rest one hand on the footboard. "I... I am very curious to know how you -- and your *dog* -- would have reacted if I had said that I spoke to your *father* after making love with you, and that *he* had... eased my concerns." And Aramis raises an eyebrow. 

"Right, well, first we have to gently ease you away from *pregnant pauses*." 

"Yes? This is just as difficult? *More* difficult?" 

"I..." 

"You do not wish to *admit* this --" 

"'s not that," Porthos says, and meets Aramis's *searching*, *studying* gaze as steadily as he can -- 

Aramis nods. "Then what?" 

"It's *both* easier --" 

"*No* --" 

"*And* harder to hear you talking about Treville -- about my *Daddy* -- this way --" 

"Tell me what makes it more difficult!" 

"Right you are, love," Porthos says, and smiles ruefully, and thinks about being curled *up* with his Daddy -- 

With his Daddy's *knot* still swollen-*huge* inside him -- and the dogs in both of them satisfied enough that the *men* in them could bloody *talk*. 

Just -- for a little while -- 

"Ohh..." 

"Yeah, love. See, we talk about everything -- and I told you a *little* about that, but not *enough*, and not enough about how that *everything* relates to you. *He* told *me* that I was going to need to *get* you, that I was going to need to *have* you in every bloody *way* -- " 

"I -- *before* the two of us made love?" 

Porthos meets Aramis's gaze. "Yeah. And -- he didn't say it. He didn't say: 'Porthos, son, he's your *mate*', but that's because, I think, he was trying to be gentle with me --" 

"*No* --" 

"And all the ways that, at the time, I was asking him to *stop* talking to me about the dog in me," Porthos says, and raises his eyebrows -- 

"You -- you must not do -- *neither* of you can do this thing!" 

"I know --" 

"My *Porthos* --" 

"I know." 

Aramis growls and paces *away* from the bed -- 

Growls more -- 

And paces back before *gripping* the footboard with *both* hands. "Tell me -- you know what I must *hear*, my Porthos." 

"I do, love," Porthos says, and smiles ruefully. "We talked about you just the same. And he had -- that look in his eyes. That hungry, loving, greedy, admiring... I knew he wanted you -- no, that's not it --" 

"No?"

"No. I knew he *loved* you. *Just* the way he loved me, and *Athos*, and *Thomas*, and -- that made me feel a *lot* of different things at once --" 

"What are those things!" 

"Well, first and foremost, it made me wonder if this is how Athos *always* felt, if this is what *family* meant, if this is what I *would* always feel -- if I'd always feel this *warm*, this surrounded, this wrapped-up-*tight*. Just -- *exactly* like it was all the *good* times in the Court, when more people were alive and fed and healthy than *weren't* -- I. When it was warm, and you could forget it would be cold again, soon enough." 

And Aramis makes a soft sound -- 

A *hurt* sound -- 

He's *squeezing* the footboard -- 

"I know you need more, love. I'll give it to you -- but you have to understand..."

"That. That is the *biggest* feeling, when you think of your father's love for me." 

"Yeah." 

"Even though he *also* desires me *sexually*." 

"Yeah," Porthos says, and smiles ruefully. "You know *exactly* what family has *always* looked like for me." And -- he maybe gives his Aramis, his love, his beautiful love who was raised in a bloody brothel by a very *particular* woman -- a little bit of a look. 

Aramis licks his lips and colours -- beautifully. "I do know this thing, yes. Tell me -- but..." 

"Mm?" 

"You said it *is* harder, as *well*. That -- perhaps your dog has different opinions?" 

"Well, my dog feels *strongly* that Daddy *leads* this pack, love, and that he has important -- *vastly* important -- lessons in all sorts of things -- including sticky things -- to teach *all* of us. *Quickly*, if at all possible --" 

"Your dog feels... that I should bend for him?" 

"*That* -- uh. Wait just a tick, love," Porthos says, and rolls his head on his neck -- 

Twice -- 

One more time -- 

"Your dog... has a very *strong* opinion about this..." 

"Yes, he bloody *does*," Porthos says, and barks another laugh, "And it's this: He thinks you should *definitely* bend for Daddy --" 

"Then --" 

"*But not in the ways you would bend for me*," Porthos says, and raises his eyebrows. 

Aramis blinks -- 

*Beams* -- 

He looks *overjoyed* -- 

"Yeah, eh? There are ways to *do* these things --" 

"*Yes*, my Porthos! Oh, but -- why is this *difficult* for you? This makes perfect sense!" 

"Well, I -- I kind of wanted to compare *notes* with Daddy, love. You know, see how the things we do, the things we *both* do, with you..." 

Aramis *looks* at him. 

Like -- 

Like a bloody *basilisk* -- 

"But this is *not* something we have to do, at all, and also I clearly wasn't thinking --" 

Aramis joins him on the bed, cuddling *right* up -- 

Porthos squeezes him tight because he can, nuzzling into his hairline -- 

Licking him there -- a few times. 

"I love you, and what doesn't work for you? Is bloody *terrible* for me." 

Aramis sighs. "I know this thing." 

"Yeah?" 

"I have always known this thing." 

Porthos rumbles -- and *stops* that, because Aramis smells *enraged*. "Uh. Love?" 

"I am incensed -- I might have had you. I might have had you, and your care, and your love, and your discipline, and your open *mind* --" Aramis growls again.

Porthos winces, and pets him, and -- "I could have scruffed you, but --" 

"Why did you *not*?" 

"Well... it would've felt a *lot* like *raping* you, love." 

Aramis is silent -- 

*Worryingly* silent -- 

*Terrifyingly* --

"Aramis --" 

"I. Can see. Your..." He growls again. 

"Next time? I'll definitely scruff you." 

"*Thank* you." 

~


	8. Property Damage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or, the *other* reason this story exists.

Treville is just finishing up his breakfast -- a *big* bowl of the odd, sweet-spicy not-quite-porridge-stuff that Amina favours and that she's damned well taught Cook to make just right -- 

*Amina* had finished hers ten minutes ago, and Treville's not yet managed to *teach* her the art of lingering over a meal -- 

Even though she's as big as a *house* with the as-yet-unnamed babe inside her -- 

*Their* babe -- 

Treville rumbles and rumbles -- 

Drinks some of Amina's *very* spicy and not-at-all-sweet tea -- 

She brews it herself *every* morning, even though Treville had insisted she didn't have to do a bloody *thing* -- 

She'd punched him. 

Twice. 

Treville sighs. His Amina-love is eight *months* pregnant, living with *him*, *not* working anymore -- *finally* -- 

Except that Treville now has a very tall, very dark, and very *violent* 'chatelaine' who also sometimes cooks things and is also -- 

Also -- 

He has a wife. 

And that thought lingers for a good, *long* while, which is, perhaps, why Treville is grinning like an *idiot* when Alaire walks in and *looks* at him. 

It's not a *loud* look -- Alaire is never loud. Even when he was one of the quartermasters, he was never *loud*. 

He's just looking at Treville in such a way that suggests -- *firmly* -- that if Treville doesn't bloody well pay attention right bloody *now*, he'll be spending the rest of his sorry existence scrubbing the pots and pans *while* -- somehow -- running laps. 

So. "What can I do for you, Alaire?" 

"Sir. There is a matter we must discuss." 

Treville knows for a *fact* that Alaire used to curse, before he'd been bumped up to quartermaster. He hadn't heard it himself, of course, but there were a *lot* of reports from *many* credible sources -- "I'm listening --" 

And Alaire whips out a stack of -- ominous -- parchment from -- 

From *somewhere* -- 

He pulls on his -- even *more* ominous -- *spectacles* -- 

"I -- what..." 

"The addition of the Madame to our household has necessitated adjustments to the budget," he says. 

Treville takes a breath. "Oh -- yes, of course -- I'd assumed you would have... taken care of..." 

Alaire *looks* at him. Over the top of his spectacles. "I made those adjustments, sir. Two years ago." 

Treville coughs -- 

Blushes *hard* -- 

"I -- hm." No, no, *recover*. "Right, but... if you... already --" 

"I made the adjustments... optimistically," he says, in the tone of voice a man would use to say he'd found a nest of enemy spies in a children's school, and now there was nothing for it but to expect an unconscionable amount of carnage.

Treville starts to *sweat*. "How... so?" 

Alaire lays the stack of parchment on the table. 

Treville will not look at it under pain of *torture* -- 

"Sir." 

"Yes, Alaire?" 

"With regards to your properties outside the city..." 

Treville licks his lips. "Yes?" 

"We have had to have your bedroom suite -- the *entire* suite -- re-plastered --" 

Treville *chokes* -- 

"We are *going* to have to have the hardwood replaced --" 

"I --" 

"-- almost certainly within the next three months, going by my calculations --" 

"Fuck -- I -- *Alaire* –" 

"We are going to have to re-plaster the *hall* *leading* to your bedroom suite, as well as your study, as well as, oddly enough, the library." Alaire looks at him again. Questioningly. 

"I don't think -- ah. Well. Ah. Is there anything else?" 

"Yes," Alaire says, and *then* turns over the first leaf of parchment. "I took the liberty of contacting several of my former associates in the Army with regards to the question of your *bed*, sir -- and every *other* bed on *all* of your properties --" 

"I... sappers?" 

"Who. *Else*. Sir." 

Treville licks his lips. "Right you are -- ah. When can they...?" 

"Immediately. They've already begun work in the manor --" 

"*Really*? I mean -- excellent, of course --" 

"I thought it best to have them experiment with the least-used beds, and light artillery." 

Treville stares. 

Alaire looks at him like -- 

Like one wrong word will get Treville eviscerated, actually, so -- "Excellent initiative, as always. Next?" 

Alaire nods, and flips the page. "I have *also* taken the liberty of using a portion of your income to purchase a modicum of pastureland --" 

"*Oh* --" 

Alaire *looks* at him. 

Treville pants -- "It's only -- the babe will need a large *amount* of meat --" 

"Yes, he *will*, sir. And so will the *next* child. And the *next*. And so will *you*. And so will your *wife*," Alaire says, and, this time, the look suggests Alaire shoving, say, an *entire* sheep -- unsheared, still bleating, and with *sharpened* hooves -- right down Treville's throat. 

"I -- perhaps I should have -- thought of this." 

Alaire's scar tissue twitches so violently it looks like it wants to jump off his *face*. 

"Certainly -- certainly I should've thought of this -- all of this! -- faster... ah... is there anything... else?"

Alaire looks at him, muddy-brown eyes gleaming with *exactingly* brutal intent. 

Treville -- sweats. 

Treville sweats, and -- no, he *thinks*. He just -- he is *capable* of thinking *sometimes* -- 

Certainly, Laurent always says so -- wait. 

He takes a breath -- 

He folds his *hands* together in front of him -- 

And he smiles ruefully. "We will be more... careful with the more *breakable* parts of the household, Alaire." 

Alaire raises an eyebrow. Slowly. 

Shit -- "And -- we will train our *children* to do the *same*. At all *possible* times." 

Alaire's scar-tissue *quivers* -- 

"*And* -- I will *not* be *quite* so oblivious -- ah. I am *aware* that Amina is taking over more of the responsibilities for running the household herself. That she *needs* to do it in order to feel like less of a *lump*. I will not take *advantage* of that and *force* her to face all the *inconveniences* of our heedlessness *alone*." 

Alaire lifts his chin -- 

Treville searches his mind for what else he'd *missed* -- 

And then Alaire collects his pile of parchment, inclines his head, and *smiles* -- 

Treville goggles -- 

"Your happiness is my own, sir," he says, softly and gently and *terrifyingly* -- 

"I -- I --" 

Alaire *glares* -- 

"Fuck -- dismissed! I mean thank you! I mean -- *fuck*." 

Alaire inclines his head *again* -- and *glides* out the door. 

Treville... breathes. 

And drinks more tea. 

And spends a few moments wondering what *sort* of light artillery Alaire's sapper-friends will decide is *most* like the most beautiful, perfect, awe-inspiring woman in all the spheres being fucked by Treville. 

He frowns. 

He *worries* -- no, he stops that. When you get right down to it, his *Dad* would have approved of absolutely all of this, up to and including the manor he'd raised being actively *fortified* for the sake of deviant sex. 

He'll get grandchildren out of it, after all. 

~


	9. Whining

Aramis has been -- very careful. 

He is *usually* a very careful person -- in his way -- but he has been even *more* careful *today*. 

Today? He is treating with his *man*. With -- 

With his mate.

His care has been rewarded with rich honesty; warm touch; firm, loving *discipline* -- 

Such *discipline* -- !

Such *punishment*... 

Aramis's *care* has been rewarded with his mate's *claim* at *last* -- and if it is Aramis's *fault* that they had waited so *long* -- 

Well, then. 

He is better than this now. 

And he has made his *Porthos* better, too. 

Right now, in this moment, Porthos is curled around him from the back. His mighty cock has slipped -- once more -- from *inside* Aramis, but Aramis is still slick and warm with spend and oil. 

Much, much of both. 

He does not wriggle, though he wishes to. 

Porthos has not *knotted* him, yet -- they were too aroused to wait the time it would take to *prepare* Aramis's arse for Porthos's knot, but -- 

Mm. There is a great, great deal to be... considered, even without the knot in question. 

Aramis continues to avoid wriggling. 

Porthos is snoring softly into the fall of Aramis's hair, and the arm he has around Aramis's waist is -- almost -- slack. 

Porthos -- and his dog? -- are at rest. 

Aramis is a careful man. He will not wake his love, *yet*. 

Still... there is some question of what to *do* with himself now that the sun is all the way down. 

Now -- and he is certain of this; he has an *excellent* view of the de Treville stables across the street -- that the *Captain* is home. 

There is *some* ambiguity in play -- it is *just* possible that the Captain came straight home from the palace, instead of stopping at the garrison, where he would've received reports of Aramis leaving his training so *early* today -- no, he is the *Captain*, and before that he was one of the most *dedicated* of lieutenants. 

Nothing would have kept him from at least making an *appearance* at the garrison -- and probably far, far more than that. Which -- *perhaps* -- means that Aramis has earned... still more discipline. 

He should *not* be so eager for this thing! Not in his Porthos's *arms*. 

It -- 

He has been *training* his Porthos in the proper ways to *view* such things, in the proper ways to care for him, and hold him, and *keep* him against all the world's loneliness and *cold*. 

His good mother had given him a *lifetime's* worth of information on how to do just this in the time that they had had together -- she had certainly not waited until he was an adolescent -- and now, at *last*, it is time for him to *use* it -- 

("You *will* find the man who will be *worth* you, my tricky boy... and then? You *will* set about making certain that he will *always* be so, for the rest of your *days*.") 

*Yes*, Maman, and it is Porthos, and it is for *always*, but -- 

But... 

His good mother had discussed other things, in other *ways*, from time to time. 

("Mother, why do you always insist it will be a *man* for me? I *love* women --" 

And she had laughed at him, throaty and rich and purred as ever -- 

She had not even looked *up* from her correspondence -- 

She had shaken her *head* -- 

"*Mother* --" 

"Aramis," she'd said, crossing a 't' and *then* looking up, sleepy-eyed and wry and... formal. "My son. When a soldier -- nearly any soldier -- walks into this brothel, you do everything in your power to make him welcome, over and above what we *must* do for our *art*. Over and above what any friendly young *man* would do for someone who has never done him *harm*. You? Offer your brotherhood -- or the potential of it -- to every. Last. One of them. One day, one of them is going to be smart enough to take it." 

"I..." 

"Please note, in this moment, what I have failed to say about the offers you make -- and do *not* make -- to women. Any women. At *all*.") 

Aramis had grown more careful after that, more *circumspect* -- 

But Aramis still hadn't found *any* women he *could* offer that much of himself to, in any way, until after he'd spent nearly three years in a Jesuit school -- 

Until after he'd been made... smaller, and quieter, and harder, and *angrier* -- 

And Isabelle had seen every bit of him, including the parts Aramis had been careful to *hide*. 

Maman, he'd called in the night, in the dark, in his *empty* pallet in his father's house, look! Look!

Her shade had frowned at his attempts to make something with Isabelle, and Aramis had been too fevered, too troubled, to eager to *escape* his father in any way *possible* to think about *why*. 

Here, now, in his Porthos's arms -- 

With Isabelle lost to him for the better part of a *decade* -- 

He can say, with assurance, that her shade had been frowning at his *lies*. 

("You will not lie to the man who is worthy of you, my tricky boy..." 

"But..." 

"I know," Mother had said, curling around him in the bed they shared at Madame Margaud's and nipping his ear firmly, but gently.

"I will listen." 

"Mm. I have taught you many ways to tell lies -- good, sweet lies -- to ease the cares of a man's heart..." 

"Yes! And I am *good* at -- most of them, only most, but I will get *better*, I *promise* this --" 

"You will *always* excel. This is simple truth," she had said, and squeezed him tight. "But... lies are not for the man you will make your *own* someday." 

"Not... not even to *ease* him?" 

"No, my tricky boy." 

"Not even --" 

"Never. Just as they will *never* be for *me*.") 

And that had made everything clear, of course. 

That had *changed* everything -- 

That had *illuminated* shadowed corners in Aramis's mind which he hadn't even known were *there* -- he could have more *family*!

He *would* have more family someday and this -- all of this -- was teaching him how to make it happen. 

He had listened to Maman even *more* assiduously after that night -- 

("Of course..." 

"Mm?" And Aramis had looked up from applying his paint in the mirror he was sharing with Maman. "What is it, Mother?" 

She'd laughed then, throaty and low and -- rueful, somehow. *Somehow*. 

Aramis had *blinked* -- "Mother?" 

She had jumped up on their -- neat, always -- bureau like a much younger woman, crossed her legs, and hummed. "I know you, my tricky boy..." 

"Of course you --" 

"I know everything *about* you. *All* of your whims and tricks and ways." 

"Yes --" 

"I know..." And when she had smiled ruefully at *him*, as if Aramis was the *strangest* boy who had ever *been* -- 

Aramis had frowned. "Maman..." 

"Shh, no, my tricky boy. You will ruin your *art*."

Aramis had blinked and *fixed* his expression -- 

"*Good* boy. And... this: I have realized, far too *belatedly*, that your training has been woefully *incomplete*, thus far." 

"How so? What am I *missing*?" 

"You will have a man someday, my tricky boy, and, with your assistance and *training*, he will be *everything* you *both* need for him to be." 

"Yes, Maman, but --" 

"You will *also* have..." And she had licked her *lips*. Not wetly enough to muss *her* paint, but -- 

"I will have... women?" 

"Perhaps, my tricky boy. Perhaps you will, at that --" 

"Oh, Maman!" 

"Wait," she had said, and held up a hand. "You must know yourself at *least* as well as *I* know you, my tricky boy. You must show *care* --" 

"Yes, I *will* --" 

"And you must *remember* that the *man* you are meant for will come first in *all* ways, for all *things*." 

"Yes, of course, I have learned this lesson already!" 

"My tricky boy..." And she had shaken her head. "What have you learned of people -- even good, loving, *intelligent* people -- who work to *juggle* relationships like a handful of colourful little balls in the air...?" 

Aramis had opened his mouth -- 

And then winced -- 

And closed it. "Yes, Mother. I must learn more than *they* had ever *dreamed* of learning." 

She had laughed again. "Considering your reaction to my little revelation...? I'd say so...") 

But, of course, Aramis's father had come barely a week later, and -- 

And --

And there had never been -- 

His good *mother* -- 

Porthos *growls* awake and *clutches* Aramis -- 

"*I* -- my Porthos --" 

"What's wrong," Porthos says, and kisses Aramis's ear -- 

Licks it -- 

Sniffs it *thoroughly*, and then sniffs a path down to Aramis's throat -- "What took your thoughts, mm? Tell me." 

"I -- I -- the dark turn of my thoughts *woke* you?" 

"I felt you -- tasted -- 'm not sure. The dog in me was *very* insistent about things, love," Porthos says, and licks Aramis's throat once -- 

Twice -- 

"I can tell you haven't been upset for very long..." 

"I..." 

"But I can *also* tell that whatever *did* upset you was -- big," Porthos says, and holds him. Focuses on him. *Waits* for him -- 

The way his good mother had always said his man *would* -- 

Aramis swallows a *noise* -- 

He can't -- 

"Love..." 

He will not hide from his man. "I was. Thinking of my good mother, and all of her good *lessons*, my Porthos. All of her *training* so that I would be *ready* for the man who would be mine someday." 

"Uh. Wait --" 

"And then... then I was thinking of my father." 

Porthos growls, then, low and *harsh* -- 

*Violent* -- 

Perfect. Aramis pushes into his arms more fully -- 

Porthos *continues* to growl... but also *holds* him more completely, more warmly -- 

Aramis sighs -- helplessly. "My Porthos will spoil me." 

Porthos's growl becomes a rumble as he begins to *sniff* Aramis again -- 

Even more *thoroughly* this time -- 

Aramis arches and moves for his Porthos, makes it *easier* for him to reach those difficult *places* -- 

*All* of those difficult -- 

"Right, I -- uh." 

"Yes, my Porthos?" 

Porthos licks the back of Aramis's left knee *slowly* -- 

"*Ee* --" 

"Thought so," Porthos says, and crawls back up the bed, pulling Aramis back into his arms. "Sorry about that; didn't mean to get distracted like that --" 

"All is well, my Porthos. You have *thoroughly* distracted *me*," Aramis says, reaching up to cup Porthos's beautiful face -- 

To tug his mussed beard more or less back into shape -- 

To run his fingers *through* his beard -- 

And Porthos's dark eyes are wide, full, *focused* on him -- "This is where I admit that I *absolutely* did not have to be a dog to want to lick every inch of your body, love." 

"Ah, no? Including my toes? You were very thorough about my toes earlier." 

"*You* have very attractive feet." 

Hm. "Does my Porthos wish his Aramis to *use* his very attractive feet --" 

"Oh fuck." 

"Was that a yes?" 

Porthos looks very attractively *pained* -- 

Aramis raises an eyebrow *slowly* -- 

"Right, yeah, I would be a *cowardly* liar if I said I *hadn't* at least *tried* to have a fantasy about you involving every sticky fixation I'd ever bloody *heard* of --" 

"I." 

"Mm?" 

"I want to know what did *not* work!" 

*Porthos* raises his eyebrows. "Are you *angry* that I've had fantasies about you that didn't --" 

"*Yes*!" 

"Love --" 

Aramis narrows his eyes. 

"That will *never not be terrifying*, but *love*. All the fantasies that didn't work? Involved at least *one* of us having a *cunt*." 

Aramis -- considers this. 

"You're thinking about it?" 

"I -- yes." 

"I'm on probation while you're thinking about it, aren't I." 

"*Yes* -- because --" 

"Because I'm not supposed to put any limitations on us, yeah, I know it," Porthos says, and rumbles -- 

And rumbles into Aramis's throat -- 

And *bites* Aramis's throat -- 

"*Ahn* -- Porthos --" 

Porthos bites *harder* -- mm. 

Mm, that -- well -- 

Porthos *growls* while biting -- 

"I do not wish either of us to have a cunt!" 

Porthos *licks* the flesh between his teeth. *Slowly*. 

Aramis shivers and groans -- 

And *then* Porthos pulls back. "So I'm off probation?" 

"Yes, my Porthos." 

"Good. I should say..." 

"Yes, my Porthos?" 

"You definitely had *fantastic* sodding *teats* in several of the fantasies that worked *extremely* well --" 

"You." 

"Mm?" 

Aramis makes a noncommittal sound, cuddles closer, and makes many, many plans to renew his abilities to amaze and *arouse* with the arts of paint, powder, and lingerie. 

"That's a *worrying* sound, love..." 

Aramis purrs, instead. 

"That's a *distracting* -- wait, weren't we *talking*?" 

"Are we not talking right now, my Porthos?" 

Porthos cups -- grips -- Aramis's chin. "About your mother, love. And your --" 

"Not -- not him, my Porthos," Aramis says, and winces. "Not tonight." 

Porthos frowns -- "There'll be other nights?" 

"For us, my Porthos? *All* nights." 

Porthos *grunts* -- "Fuck -- I want that. I'm going *mad* here without you and Athos --" 

"You will be back at the garrison soon enough --" 

"That's not -- that's not the whole problem," Porthos says, and winces, and turns *away* --

"My Porthos...?" 

"I..." And Porthos growls and *releases* Aramis, and sits up, and puts his face in his *hands*. 

"My *Porthos*, what *is* it, what's *wrong* --" 

"You have to leave tonight, love. *That's* wrong. That's -- all wrong," Porthos says, muffled and hungry and -- he drags his hands down off his face and smiles ruefully. "Daddy said it, you know. How I'd *get* about my *pack*. How much I'd need them *around* me." 

Aramis *blinks* -- and nods slowly. 

"Look, I'm sorry, I shouldn't --" 

"I will let your father adopt me," Aramis says, and moves closer to Porthos once more -- 

"Uhh..." 

Aramis cups Porthos's shoulders and gives him a gentle, suggestive push. "I will let him adopt me and I will move *in*," he says, and raises an eyebrow. 

"Right, um --" 

There's a knock on the door. 

A very... familiar...

Aramis frowns.

And frowns *at* Porthos -- 

Who is *groaning* -- and beating his head against the headboard. 

"That... is your father." 

"It really is, love." 

"I have *called* him with my --" 

"*We* called him with this whole conversation. And our scents. And the reports he would've gotten -- well," Porthos says, and smiles wryly. "I can tell him to come back another --" 

"*No*," Aramis says, and moves off the bed, and pulls on his breeches -- 

"That is *tragic* --" 

"My *Porthos*!" 

"All *right*, love, I'm moving, I'm moving," Porthos says, and stands, and pulls on his own breeches -- and nothing else. 

*Aramis* can't imagine having this conversation without at least a shirt on over his breeches, though... hm. 

"Mm? What is it, love?" 

"No, I..." Aramis *leaves* his trousers where they *are*. "If this is to be my home? I must be *comfortable*." 

This -- 

This makes Porthos *beam* at him, give Aramis all of his warmth and light and life and *happiness* -- 

It... 

"My Porthos... I." And Aramis licks his lips and moves close once more, cupping Porthos's beautiful face. 

Porthos cups his with both hands. Cherishes him. "Tell me." 

"No one since my good mother was alive has ever made me feel more right, more perfect, more *correct* in my own *skin* than *you* do every *day*." 

Porthos inhales sharply -- "Oh..." 

"*This*, my Porthos. *This* is what I needed to tell you about my good mother, more than anything else." 

Porthos blinks for this -- and raises his eyebrows. "I *think* there's maybe a *little* more than that, love..." 

Aramis laughs quietly. "Ah, well. Perhaps if we have time..." 

Porthos snorts and -- his cuff *becomes* a caress. "C'mon. Let's go make Daddy's night." 

~


	10. Domestic Abuse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things start veering even *more* AU.

There's nothing *much* to celebrate about the last vastly deniable little action -- they'd gained no new territory for France, and they weren't even really *trying* to do that. 

What Treville and his brothers *had* done, however, was assassinate one of Spain's best generals, *three* of his lieutenants, *and* three of the 'courtiers' -- spies to the *bone* -- the general had had dining with him that night. The fourth... 

Well, orders were orders. 

The Queen-Regent wanted *him* alive -- probably for a marriage to a lesser cousin. 

Treville *had* gotten the man to shit himself at the dinner table, though, and that -- and the fact that he's home *good* and early -- 

*Home*, not just at the garrison -- 

Is enough to put a whistle round his lips -- 

A spring in his step as he sweeps off his hat and clasps Alaire's arm -- hm, he's looking even more terrifying than usual, Treville will have to do something about that. 

But *first*, into the house proper, and lift his nose -- 

Amina is upstairs. 

Amina is -- mm. Is she wearing perfume? She *never* wears perfume, but -- 

There's a scent -- 

A *different* scent -- 

Spicy-musky-fresh -- 

Treville is rumbling and *jogging* up the stairs -- 

He has to get *closer* to that scent, yes, right now, *right* now, and -- 

Wait, he has to check on their little Porthos, too. He breathes deep -- sleeping, deeply and peacefully, and that's... well, that's a disappointment, but maybe Amina won't mind if Treville wakes him up?

Just for a little while...? He'll ask. 

He turns back toward those new and musky -- wilder, definitely *wilder* scents -- 

Coming from the *bedroom* suite, and that's promising in all sorts of ways, though -- 

Amina is growling in there. Hm. 

Amina is growling and *pacing* in there -- Treville can tell by the sounds, the scents, the air currents -- 

Hm. 

He jogs *faster*, opens the door, "Amina-love, what --" 

And that's when his lady-love slams him back *through* the door, into the hall, and against the opposite wall -- 

"*Fuck* -- hey, wait, we promised Alaire not to *do* this to the *plaster* outside the bedroom anymore --" 

"Shut it!" 

"All *right*. I'll apologize to Alaire for both of us --"

Amina snarls and -- slavers. A bit. 

There's some -- 

Some *foam* -- 

Hm. "You smell *fantastic*, by the way. Also, you're beautiful." 

"I am a werewolf now!" 

Treville blinks -- 

*Thinks* about that -- 

Thinks *hard* -- 

"*Say* something, my husband!" 

There's really only one thing *to* say: Treville *tears* open his tunic at the throat and shoulder, ripping the leather away, tilts his head back as much as he can with how his Amina-love is *pinning* him; and *looks* at her. "My. *Wife*." 

Her eyes flare a madder, wilder, *redder* maroon than they ever have before -- 

Treville's heart is *pounding* -- 

But when she growls low and starts *sniffing* his throat -- 

When she starts dragging her cold, damp nose over and over and *over* the flesh -- 

When she lets him *feel* her teeth -- 

Oh, Treville is only hot, only ready, only hard as *stone* -- "*Now*, Amina-love, do it --" 

She bites *deep* -- 

Treville bucks and *shouts* -- it burns like ice, like sweetness, like the wind, like the *moon* -- 

He can't *breathe* -- 

He's never -- 

He's never *imagined* -- 

Not *any* of the times she's bitten him, or he's bitten *her*, and now there are sharp claws tearing through his clothes -- 

Now he's being stripped, thrown to the floor, *jerked* -- 

He can't -- 

He *can't* -- 

He has to bloody *say* something to his *wife* --

"Talk. *Later*," she says, *snarls*, and suddenly she's eight feet *tall*, hulking and *huge*, with fur -- 

The fur is thicker, straighter, *bristling* just a little as she kneels over him -- 

As she *grips* his cock in a sharp-clawed half-paw -- 

"*Amina* --" 

"My. MINE!" 

"You're so *beautiful*!" 

She cocks her head to the side. 

"*What*?" 

She -- yips. A lot. Which -- 

"This is *not* an entirely unfamiliar *protocol*, Amina-love," Treville says, and lolls his *tongue* -- 

Those eyes *flare* again -- 

Treville *grunts* -- "Please, fuck -- let me *fuck* you -- my knot *has* to be big enough to work --" 

"My husband. SHIFT." 

"What --" But there's something like a *yank* inside him, like -- and the next thing he knows, he's staring at his own *silver-white* fur, and -- 

And a very large amount of -- 

Hm. Treville raises his eyebrows at his -- new -- cock. 

"What. Is it," Amina chews out. 

"Have I --" No, he needs to be coherent for this. He *reaches* for his Amina-love. 

(What *is* it, my husband?) 

Have I secretly been too small for all these years?

(You.) She smacks him so hard his muzzle bounces off the floor. 

I'm just *asking* -- 

She smacks him again. 

It's a -- mm. Reasonable *question*, Amina-love... 

She narrows her *gleaming* eyes -- (Is it.)

Oh, yeah... if you needed something more than what I was *giving* you, you might just be a little *hungry* now, he says, and licks away *some* of the blood dripping from of his muzzle. 

She pants -- 

She *growls* -- 

She moves to smack him *again* -- 

He catches her thick, muscular wrist -- and squeezes hard. Are you hungry, Amina-love...? 

She growls *low* -- 

It thrums in his *chest* -- 

The scents of her need are *blinding*, and he's going to start begging in whuffs and *barks* in a minute, but -- 

But. 

Are you *hungry*, he says, and squeezes hard enough to *hurt*. 

And -- she whines. 

She *whines*, and *yanks* her wrist away from him, and turns, and lifts her *arse* -- 

Her beautiful, furry -- 

And her cunt is so wet, so wide-open, so *ready*, but he still needs to lick, always needs to *lick* -- 

Shove his muzzle right in and make her -- 

Yes, keen, *keen*, keen and *growl*, just that way, as she shoves herself back and back onto his *face* -- 

He licks *deep* -- 

She gouges the *floor* -- 

Alaire is going to *behead* them -- 

She *snarls* -- 

He'll think about that later. For now --

For now, it's a bloody *imperative* to *nip* at her cunt the way he only does when they're wound up just that high, when they need it just that *much* -- 

She spreads herself *wider* -- 

Treville *gulps* air and nips more, licks and nibbles and *fucks* her with his tongue, in and in and in and *in* until she's crooning for him, *shaking* for him -- 

Clawing at the floor over and over again and crooning *more* -- 

He's so *hard* -- and. 

And. 

He grips her hips, pulls back, and growls *low*. 

She *whines* again, and Treville's ridiculously massive cock jerks, drips -- 

He *needs* --

And she gasps and drops her muzzle to the splintered *floor*, to the torn-up rugs, and he can't wait, he can't wait one more *second*. He grips himself just *beyond* his huge, *pulsing* knot and pushes in -- 

So hot -- 

So sleek -- 

So soft-wet-*hungry* -- 

For him, yes, for him, this is for him, this is *his*, this cunt is *his*, and Treville can *feel* Amina reaching for him, giving herself, blending, *sharing*, but right now all that means is that this cunt is *his*. 

*All* his, and he's going to fuck it hard, fuck it until his woman is *screaming* her growls, fuck it until his woman is beating *chips* out of the floor just -- 

Like -- 

*This*, and ah, *fuck*, even fucking his *knot* in goes sweetly, goes *easily*, she's *blooming* around him, she's -- 

She's taking *everything* from him, she's -- 

They're in each other's *blood*, more than ever *before*, somehow, and -- 

Oh, they were made for each other, made for *this*! 

In every form, in every moment, in every bloody *iteration* -- because he would've married his Amina-love and brought her home to be his forever if they'd stayed nothing but sense-blind and human and *incomplete* -- 

And they'd been happy and correct and bloody *perfect* as two magical dogs indifferently pretending to be human, but now -- 

*Now* -- 

Ah, *fuck*, every part of his soul is *singing* for this, for his *mate*, for this *completion* that's somehow never been his, somehow never been *there* for *either* of them -- 

Who gave them this *gift*?

Who -- 

(*Later*, my husband!) And his Amina-love is *arching* her neck, offering the way she always does when he has her from the back -- 

*Demanding* and *teasing*, and Treville is fucking her harder for it, fucking her across the *floor* -- 

She's yipping and *crooning* -- 

Begging *that* way -- 

She's giving him her ache, her need, her -- 

Her *ache* -- 

And he knows, with the sudden clarity of his belly dropping and his mind *narrowing* -- this is her *time*. 

There's going to be another babe. There -- 

And he can't tease, at all, anymore, can't -- he *darts* in, gripping her throat in his jaws and biting hard, biting deep, *taking* as he *has* her -- 

Shoving *in* and taking her *blood* and knowing that he'll do it again and again for *decades* to come -- they're both so much *stronger*!

It's -- 

It's *forever* -- 

She clenches *viciously* around his knot -- and then starts to *ripple* as she spends, as she wets him *down*, fuck fuck -- 

He doesn't want to *stop* -- 

He doesn't want to stop *anything* -- 

She's *keening* out growls and trying to *work* him, but she keeps *choking* on it, keeps panting, keeps *crooning* -- 

She's *rippling* more as she *collapses* -- 

He's holding her up with his *paws* and his *teeth* and that just makes him harder, makes him -- 

Oh, he's whuffing now as he fucks her, as he *gives* it to her, as he gives her every-bloody-thing he *is* -- 

She's crooning so *sweet*, so low, so dirty-sweet-*mournful*, because they both know it has to stop soon, they both know they have to *behave* soon, and it's never *better* for them than in the seconds right *after* she spends and right *before* he does, but -- 

Please -- 

Oh, please just one more stroke -- 

And another so -- 

She *clenches* -- 

He *howls* into her *throat* -- 

She flexes open before clenching *harder* -- and Treville feels that oddly *breaking* flash between them that means she's spending just a *little* again in the moments before -- 

Before the *moon* takes him, *fuck*, somehow-silently *roaring* and wild, and he's spilling, jerking, *slamming* in as he gasps and yips and yips and yips and goes utterly blind with it, covering his Amina-love and -- 

Well, collapsing like an *arsehole* really, but -- 

Fuck, he's still *spending* -- 

He's -- 

He can't -- 

His *hips* are still pumping for it, and that's -- 

Usually he can at least stop *that* part even when he *can't* stop spilling -- 

Amina is *groaning* like a *human* woman -- sort of, there's still a bit of growling -- 

An *increasing* amount of -- 

Should I apologize? 

(*No*, my husband. You should simply stop -- but you cannot.) 

I -- no. 

She growls more. 

I -- 

(You will not apologize for this!) 

Are you *sure* -- oh, *fuck*, that spasm -- 

(I am sure. You are making our babe big and strong and -- perhaps somewhat sticky.) 

Treville *coughs* a laugh -- 

Shifts back to *human* form *helplessly* -- 

Except for his *cock* -- 

Fuck, it looks even *more* huge *this* way -- 

(It is beautiful! And *you* cannot even *see* it right now!)

"I'm *looking* at how much it's making you *gape*, Amina-love."

And then there's a pause. 

A long -- 

Terrifying -- 

(Are you implying that my *cunt* is stretched out of *shape*, my husband?) 

Treville swallows thickly. 

(Well?) 

"Just to be clear -- "

(I am waiting.) 

"Is there a *good* answer to that question?"

Amina yips laughter for a *long* time -- and then shifts back to human-form. 

"Oh -- fuck, that looks *obscene* --" 

"It *feels*... obscenely *perfect*," she says, and all but *salaams* herself out on the ruined floor, crooning and rumbling. 

"I *was* too small for you!" 

"Shut it!" 

"*Amina* --" 

"*Shut* it! You have always been *perfect*, my husband. You have *always* satisfied me -- *senseless*, if you will think back to just three *weeks* ago!" 

"I -- hm." 

"*Yes*...?" 

"All *right*, but --" 

"The *wolf* in me likes the *wolf* in you even *better*. You *arse*." 

"Oh." 

"Yes, *oh*." And then she snickers and rumbles a little more. 

And a little more -- 

And then she sighs. "I must introduce you to Jason, our new brother." 

"Our -- what? Amina?"

"Mm. He is a blood-, fire-, and shadow-witch who can travel between the spheres -- he is also immortal --" 

"... what?" 

"And he has deep, substantive conversations with the Jasons from *other* spheres." 

"Right, that's -- that part made sense, considering some of the things the All-Mother likes to do to us, but... what?" 

Amina wriggles a little more. "He came to visit with us, my husband. Bearing... terrible tales," she says, and -- stiffens for a long moment. 

Treville lifts his nose *while* petting -- and thinking. "Tales from -- other spheres. Tales of *us* from other spheres." 

"Yes, my husband. And -- our Porthos." 

Treville *grips* Amina -- "What. What happens. What *happens* --" 

"We have already *stopped* it from happening here -- apparently. As near as he could *tell*." 

"But --" 

"I will not tell you what he told me, my husband. I will not..." She firms her lips into a hard line and shakes her head. "It is enough for you to know that we lost each other forever --" 

"*No* --" 

"And that you lost our Porthos for twenty long *years*." 

"I won't -- I *won't* -- *Amina* --" 

"We stopped it here, my husband. We *did*." 

"*How* did we bloody -- how could that -- that *Jason* be *sure*?" 

"He said it was *Belgard* --" 

"He -- *what*? That -- that poncy little..."

"You are tempted to doubt this tale again. I was, as well, my husband," Amina says, and folds her arms under her. "But I could *smell* Jason. Smell his scents of smoke and metal and *power* -- and *absolute* honesty. He is not a man who lies when he does not *need* to." 

"And -- I know that you know that perfectly -- but *Belgard*?" 

"On *many* spheres, he apparently tries to *keep* me --" 

"Right, and he did *here*, but then his father disinherited his arse and was *going* to pack him off to... I don't remember --" 

"Toulouse. It was *Toulouse*." 

"He didn't bloody *make* it; I remember *that* much. He was found naked in an alley --" 

"Stripped of all his possessions not *especially* far from the Merchant's Quarter, yes." 

"Good bloody riddance. I -- *whatever* he'd *planned* to do to us -- I don't know. I *do* know that I want to give whatever whore *rolled* him an *extremely* happy life. I've *always* wanted to do that." 

"Well..." 

"Mm? And anyway, this is what I mean -- *we* didn't have anything to *do* with stopping Belgard's plans." 

"I was being more... open with that 'we' than I usually am, my husband," Amina says, and smiles ruefully.

"What does *that* mean? And you still haven't explained why you're calling this Jason our *brother* -- though him bringing warnings is a good start --" 

"You will like him, my husband; he is an old *soldier*. We had a *wonderful* conversation once he stopped terrifying me --" 

"You don't *have* conversations with people outside the -- are you *attracted* to him --" 

"Yes --" 

"*Fuck* --" 

"Additionally, Jason told me the *identity* of the whore --" 

"The one who killed Belgard? *Really*? All right, no longer want to kill him --" 

"My husband." 

"You turned me into a *werewolf*, Amina-love, I'm *allowed* to be possessive!" 

She turns her head enough to *look* at him. 

"Is his *cock* bigger than the one you gave me -- well, no, if it was he'd have to walk on it --" 

She splutters -- 

Treville tips the hat he isn't wearing. "About the whore...?" 

"She is the mother... of our Porthos's *mate*." 

"Our --" Treville blinks and licks his lips and blinks just a little bit *more* -- no. "You've spoken to --" 

"Marie-Angelique and I have sent her brief letters. Her name is Claudette d'Herblay, and she is *also* a wonderful conversationalist. And a spirit-witch." 

"Right, well -- hm. 

"She and her son will be joining us here in just a few days." 

"... son?" 

"Yes, my husband." 

"And... Jason?" 

"He has business with the fire-demon who shares his soul. He will *also* return in a few days." 

"... I." 

"Yes, my husband?" 

Treville licks his lips and considers... 

Considers saying something that could be construed as spiritually conservative, or even *sane* -- no. 

No. 

Amina rumbles and clenches around him. 

Treville sighs and pets her. "So... about us being werewolves now?" 

"After discussion -- mm -- the All-Mother agreed that we could all use more protection." 

Treville blinks. "... all...?" 

"Hrr. Marie-Angelique makes a very, very beautiful wolf, my husband." 

Treville licks his lips -- 

Considers the possibilities inherent to *that* very deeply, indeed... 

And settles into petting and caressing his lady-love.


	11. Insurance Fraud

Aramis watches the Captain -- *Treville* -- *gripping* Porthos -- 

Pulling him close with Porthos's eager cooperation -- 

"Yeah, Daddy, I --" 

"Shh," Treville says. "I would like to keep... just a little control." 

"Right, yeah --" 

And then Treville proceeds to push and pull and *move* Porthos -- 

To tuck his face in against Porthos's throat, his chest, his wrists -- 

To sniff and snuffle *thoroughly* -- 

To lick and lap -- 

He *bites* Porthos's wrists -- 

"*Fuck* --" 

He bites Porthos's *throat* -- 

The space behind Porthos's *right* ear, and now Porthos is panting, hard in his breeches, whining with soft *helplessness* -- 

Treville growls *menacingly* into Porthos's ear -- but then cuts himself off with a yip. "Apologies, son -- and to you, as well, Aramis," he says, stepping *back* from Porthos -- but not so far that he can't keep a hand on Porthos's shoulder, close to his throat. "You can imagine what the dog in me is thinking -- and feeling -- about all the scents in here." 

That... Aramis raises an eyebrow. "Possessive?" 

"Of course, son, but... that's not the whole of it," Treville says, and rolls his head on his neck once -- 

Again -- 

He growls and puts slightly more distance between himself and Porthos, smiling ruefully at both of them -- 

Porthos nods once and *starts* to stand at attention... before obviously thinking better of it and moving to sit almost *determinedly* casually on the couch. 

It leaves Aramis *deeply* unsure about what *he* should do, and do with his *body* -- 

He has not felt this unsure since he was an *adolescent*, and even then, he'd had his good *mother's* lessons -- 

"I'd like," Treville says, licking his lips and looking to *him*. "I'd like to know more about that, son. About you and your mother." 

Aramis *blinks* -- 

*Remembers* everything Porthos had said their *first* night about how the link he'd built between the two of *them* had, truly, linked Aramis to the whole of the *pack* -- 

He had already *felt* this when Treville and Porthos were communicating half-silently while *training*, but -- Athos had not.

He frowns.

Treville hums. "You're thinking of how... sense-blind Athos *seems* to be." 

Aramis blinks *again* -- "You are saying he is *not*?" 

"I'm saying he doesn't *have* to be, son. He asked me, as an adolescent, to teach him everything I *could* teach him on the subject --" 

"Of -- how to *quiet* the messages and other information from the pack. I." Aramis frowns *hard*. He can't -- 

Treville barks a laugh. "He's never seemed more strange to you than he does in this moment. Has he."

"*Yes* -- I -- *why* --" 

"Talk to *him* about why, son," Treville says, and leans -- casually -- against the wall closest to the door. 

He is slightly more than ten feet away from *both* of them -- 

"And that's *about* the distance I'll stay -- for now," he says, and winks. "But I'd like to know even more about your mother, considering *how* anathemic you find Athos's choice to be --" 

"I am not strange!" 

Porthos -- makes a very strange sound, very much like a large dog *coughing* around a bark. 

Aramis frowns. 

Treville raises an eyebrow *slowly* -- 

Aramis narrows his *eyes* -- 

"Uhh -- love. I just -- we just --" 

"Yes, my Porthos...?"

"Right, look, I think we can *agree*, for the sake of *argument* -- uh. Daddy?" 

Treville grins. Broadly. And says *nothing*. 

"You *arse* -- *fine*," Porthos says, and turns back to him. "Love, the *vast* majority of humans -- *humans*, *like* you and Athos -- are not going to want their heads full of their brothers and sisters and Mums and Dads and Uncles and everyone else *all the bloody time*." 

Aramis narrows his eyes at Porthos. 

"No, love, I'm sticking by this one, because -- and I've *checked* -- *we* were the strange ones about this. *We* were the odd ones for wanting it the other way 'round --" 

"We were *not* --" 

"Love --" 

"My *Porthos* --" 

"*Love*. I will *never* say that it's *wrong* to want a head and heart and *home* full of love. I *would* never say that, all right?" 

Aramis blinks -- and stops. Just -- 

Just stops. 

And breathes -- "You would say, only, that... that the *rest* of the world *disagrees* with us." 

"That's right. *And you already knew that*," Porthos says, and *looks* at him. 

Aramis winces -- "I -- yes. I did. I apologize --" 

"Accepted." 

"Too *easily* --" 

"We'll always want your passions, son," Treville says, and crosses his feet at the ankles. His smile is warmer now -- and more gentle. 

"*You* did not even -- do you find it *entertaining* to watch your *sons* *flail*?" 

And Treville's eyebrows are up again. "Am I not *supposed* to?" 

Aramis... stares. 

Porthos guffaws -- and tosses a throw pillow at Treville. 

Treville grins and allows it to hit -- though he catches it before it can fall to the floor, and throws it back. "In all seriousness, Aramis -- we haven't *had* a newly-mated pair in this pack since it *was* me and my Amina-love. Before that, it was Laurent and Marie-Angelique, and they were keeping mostly to themselves in the early, property damage, poor decisions, and abject ridiculousness stages. This is exciting news for *all* of us." 

"Well, I'm happy to bloody *entertain* you, Daddy!" 

"You are, as ever, a balm to my spirit, son," Treville says -- and winks at Aramis again. 

Aramis is beginning to wonder if Treville wishes for his sons to *stab* him as a prelude to lovemaking -- 

Treville snickers. Like -- 

"Like an arsehole, love. Just -- there's no other way to put it," Porthos says. 

Aramis sighs, nods, and moves to join Porthos on the couch -- 

Porthos rumbles and rumbles and pulls Aramis half onto his *lap* -- 

It shocks a *laugh* out of Aramis -- and his arms are already around Porthos's neck. It -- 

This. 

*This*. 

Porthos rumbles more and begins to pet and *stroke* him -- 

And *Treville* begins to rumble from all the way across the room. It -- hm. 

Aramis turns to face him. "You are pleased by this?" 

Treville inclines his head -- and does not stop rumbling. 

"But -- you did say that possessiveness was not the *whole* of what you were feeling..." And Aramis raises an eyebrow -- 

*Pointedly* -- 

He strokes Porthos's ears with his thumbs in what he hopes is *also* a pointed fashion -- 

Porthos shivers and snorts -- "*Love* --" 

"No, son, no, I am *vastly* intrigued by this method of communication," Treville says, and his eyes are amused and wild and *hot*. 

"*Fuck* -- uh. Daddy..." And Porthos is *gripping* Aramis's hip hard enough to *bruise* -- 

Treville *blinks* -- 

Flares his nostrils -- 

And nods. "We'll leave that for the time being. Aramis --" 

"I." Aramis licks his lips and pants, lowering his arms until he has them wrapped around Porthos's neck again. "I will not -- I had not realized that would *be* -- a tease." 

"We know, son," Treville says, and makes a soothing gesture. "You *absolutely* haven't had the opportunity to play with two randy dogs before." 

Porthos loosens his grip on Aramis's hip -- and turns his head enough to lick the inside of Aramis's left wrist slowly and lingeringly. 

Aramis laughs ruefully. "I have *not*, no. More and more, however, I find myself wishing that I --" 

Porthos growls low and presses very, very sharp teeth to Aramis's wrist. 

Aramis *grunts*. "On the other hand! Ah." 

Treville hums. "Son. He did *not* say that you wouldn't be allowed to go back and tear the hypothetical dogs he absolutely didn't actually play with *apart*." 

Porthos *stops* growling, and licks Aramis again. 

And Aramis -- 

His heart is pounding -- 

He is *panting* -- 

He is smiling so -- 

Treville rumbles. "It's helpful that you enjoy Porthos's dog's possessiveness, son -- more helpful than either of us can say, truly..." 

Aramis frowns. "I believe there is a 'but' at the end of that sentence, sir." 

Treville hums. "You must never forget the *man* you fell in love with --" 

"I would not! I *could* not --" 

"You must never forget the man you *belong* to," Treville says, and -- *looks* at him. Like the *Captain*. 

Like there is a *lesson* Aramis is *missing* -- 

"Sir..." 

"Think it through, son." 

"I -- my Porthos has already *chastised* me for speaking as if I would choose the dog in him rather than the *man* in him, and I understand this thing! I will not --" 

"I don't think you do understand, son," Treville says, and smiles *wryly*. "I don't think *either* of you understand." 

Aramis turns to Porthos -- Porthos is frowning. 

Lifting his nose in obvious *confusion* -- 

"I -- tell me, Daddy. Tell *us*. What are we missing?" 

Aramis sits up enough -- no, he surrenders to the inevitable and sits side-saddle *on* his Porthos's lap -- 

The fact that he never imagined doing it *in front of their Captain* does *not* mean that he never imagined *doing it* -- 

For hours and hours at a *time* -- 

Porthos rumbles into his throat -- 

Licks *once* -- 

And then turns back to Treville. 

Aramis does the same. "Please, sir. *Tell* us." 

Treville narrows his eyes *warmly*. "Absolutely, sons. This: You're both making a *fundamental* mistake in terms of your relationships with Porthos's dog." 

"What -- what *mistake*, Daddy? He spends all his time telling me I'm an *idiot* when he's *not* telling me to pin Aramis to something and *mount him without lubricant*. I --" Porthos growls. "I'm *mostly* trying to convince him to *work* with me, a little." 

"And, perhaps, trying to convince him to let you do what you need to do?" 

"*Yes* --" 

"*Before* he does what *he* needs to do?" 

"Yeah --" 

"*Always* before he does what he needs to do, son...?"

"I -- uh." Porthos -- stops. 

Aramis looks to him -- he is licking his lips and nodding slowly, and meaning nothing *remotely* resembling yes. Aramis raises an eyebrow at *both* of them. 

Treville raises a hand for patience -- 

Aramis nods *provisionally* -- 

"Right, I --" Porthos frowns. "I haven't knotted Aramis. That's -- that's the biggest problem. Isn't it." 

"You tell me, son," Treville says, and raises an eyebrow to *teach*. 

Porthos *snorts*. "I -- the fact that you can make that facial expression for *this* conversation..." 

Treville glitters at *both* of them for long moments -- 

Shows his sharp *canines* -- 

Porthos nods judiciously. "That's better." 

Treville whuffs a laugh. "Happy to oblige, son. But...?" 

"*But* -- the fact that I fucked Aramis without knotting him the other night, and the fact that I did the same *today*... yeah. It's winding the dog in me *right* up. I can... I can almost *taste* how much he's going to settle once I *do* knot Aramis." 

Treville inclines his head. 

Aramis... stares. At nothing.

"Uh. Unless you don't *want* me to --" 

Aramis *grips* Porthos by the ears -- "You will knot me! Tonight!" 

"Oh fuck." 

Treville is *wheezing* laughter -- 

"Fuck fuck -- you *shut* it, Daddy!" 

"Oh, son, I -- your *eyes* just crossed!" 

"Can you sodding *blame* -- I bet Mum did this to you all the bloody time!" 

Treville sighs... nostalgically. 

Aramis *releases* Porthos's adorable ears and turns to see -- 

Treville is smiling broadly and rumbling and -- rubbing and caressing his own thigh as if he wishes he could be... hm. 

"Fuck, Daddy, do I want to *know* what you're thinking about?" 

Treville wags his head -- 

Rumbles more -- 

*Caresses* himself more -- 

"Fuck, just tell me!" 

Treville snickers, eyes *gleaming* a hot blue -- "I'm *thinking* of my Amina-love's habit of *scent*-marking her living spaces, son." 

Aramis blinks -- 

"Oh. Hunh. That's not..." 

Treville grins, tongue showing -- 

"Wait. You're." Porthos frowns deeply. "You're not even *remotely* talking about her using her *sweat* -- aw *fuck* --" 

Treville *yips* laughter, one yip after another and another and *another*, but -- 

Hm. This...

"Mm, I -- mm. Yes, son? I can tell you're thinking of *your* mother again, but...?" 

"*I* -- ah." Aramis *feels* his face colouring -- no. There is no reason to hide. Not from *these* men. 

"That's right, son," Treville says, sobering himself and flaring his nostrils just once. "Tell us." 

And Porthos buries his nose in Aramis's hair again -- 

Nuzzles it and Aramis's throat -- 

And Aramis can't help but relax, and breathe, and smile wryly -- if not ruefully. Not for this. 

"Son...?" 

"My mother, my good mother..." Aramis licks his lips. "She told me more than once that it was *important* for a woman to mark her territory in this harsh, cruel world. In... one way or another," he says, and raises an eyebrow. 

His Porthos rumbles for this, pleased and loving and accepting as Aramis knew he *would* be, but -- 

But Treville is nodding more thoughtfully. 

"What are you thinking in this moment, sir?" 

"Mostly? About how very badly I'd like to go back and *introduce* your mother to my Amina-love -- but. Let's not get ahead of ourselves," he says, and looks to both of them. "Do you both *understand* the importance of giving the dog in Porthos what he needs *when* he needs it?" 

"*Yes*, Daddy, but I needed *training*. I still *do* need -- and Aramis needed *time* --" 

"I did *not*!" 

"*Aramis* --" 

"I needed *discipline*, my Porthos! You *know* this!" 

Porthos *stares* at him for this -- but only for a *moment* before he growls low and pushes Aramis down onto his back -- 

Before he holds Aramis down against the *arm* of the couch -- 

Before -- "*Mine*." 

Aramis shivers and grins -- "*Yes*, my Porthos!" 

Porthos nods slowly, growling more and pressing down even *harder* on Aramis's chest -- 

Aramis cannot *breathe* -- 

It's so *perfect* -- 

But Treville barks *sharply* -- for attention. Porthos flares his nostrils twice -- 

Blinks -- 

He is *already* looking to Treville -- and Aramis must do the same. He must. 

He does -- 

And Treville is smiling ruefully. "I *won't* break up too many of *those* moments, sons, but... this is a *very* important lesson. More important... well. *I* didn't learn it for an *unconscionably* long time, and my ignorance caused me *and* the rest of the pack... terrible grief," he says, and he's not smiling, anymore. 

And Aramis can guess what grief he's speaking about. There was only so much time he *had* with his Amina, and with the child Porthos used to be. Aramis swallows and nods. "Then -- please. Teach us more." 

"Yeah, please, Daddy. We *need* -- well. We know *enough* about what we need to know we don't *have* it, yet." 

Treville takes a deep breath and nods. "My boys, always. Here it is: You know, now, that you can't deny the dog in Porthos what he needs from you in the interests of waiting for some nebulous, more convenient point in the future, yes?" 

They nod for this -- 

"I'll do better, Daddy. I -- fuck, I wouldn't treat anyone I respected that way. Not for anything they *needed*," Porthos says. 

But Treville -- smiles. "But you would, son." 

"Daddy --" 

"Shh. This: Your dog may not be all of a piece with *you*, but you cannot, *cannot* continue to act as though he is an *entirely* separate person," Treville says, and raises... the teaching eyebrow. 

Aramis considers -- 

Looks to his Porthos -- 

Porthos is *also*, obviously, *considering*, but -- 

"My Porthos... perhaps your father is saying that it would be dangerous to deny *yourself* what *you* need...?" 

Treville mimes firing a pistol at them -- 

And Porthos blinks and frowns. "But..." 

"You don't think you *have* been denying yourself. Do you, son," Treville says, and he's smiling again -- wryly, this time. 

"I *haven't* been, Daddy!" 

"You don't think -- mm, no, I know exactly why you have this little... skip, in your mind," Treville says, and smiles sharply. 

"Daddy...?" 

"Aramis," Treville says, and gestures *curtly* to him. "Come to me." 

Aramis blinks and looks to Porthos -- 

"No, son. *Don't* look to Porthos for your cues and clues just now," Treville says, and makes that *curt* gesture again. 

It -- 

It *isn't* like the Captain's gestures -- 

It's too *entitled* for -- 

It's too sharp, too cold, too -- 

It speaks of *violence* --

Porthos's hand is *flexing* on Aramis's chest -- 

"I... sir..." 

And Treville smiles -- sharply. "Do it, son. *Up*." 

"*Daddy* --" 

"*Shut* it, son!" 

Porthos *yips* -- but doesn't move his hand from Aramis's chest. He -- he seems *incapable* of doing it -- 

"That's because he is, son," Treville says, and gestures the all-stop, breathing deeply -- 

Relaxing all *over* -- 

"I apologize for doing that to the two of you --" 

"*What* was that? *What* did you do?" 

"-- but you both needed an *object lesson*," Treville says, and raises that -- that *eyebrow*. "Tell him, son." 

Porthos takes a *shuddering* breath -- 

And then -- several more. 

Treville nods -- 

Aramis *presses* himself to his Porthos -- 

Tries to give him his scents, his *self* -- 

"Yes, son, do that. And Porthos -- I will *not* do that again." 

"I -- I know, Daddy. My dog -- he's telling me. He's sharing," Porthos says, and takes another, calmer breath. And *strokes* Aramis. 

And smiles ruefully down at him. 

"Love -- that thing he was doing -- he was being a *threat* to you. He couldn't do that with his *body* -- not really. *Neither* of our dogs would've let him get away with that. But..." Porthos licks his lips. "He was making a point." 

"Yes, but -- ah. He was making you *see* that when your *dog* needs something -- like my safety, or to knot my *arse* -- you *also* need this thing." 

"Yeah, love," Porthos says, and strokes Aramis's cheek -- 

Straightens Aramis's mussed *beard* -- 

"I'm always going to need what he needs. *We're* always going to need the same things, pretty much, even if it doesn't always *seem* that way." 

Aramis nods once. "This is sense, my Porthos." 

Porthos smiles ruefully. "I'll need -- help. With this, I mean." 

Aramis raises his eyebrows -- but. But he sees, he thinks. "You will need me to help you *always* see that you and your dog are ultimately the same." 

"Yeah --" 

"You will need me..." Aramis frowns and nods. "I will be *careful*, my Porthos. I will speak, only, of *the dog in you*, as opposed to 'your dog'." And Aramis raises an eyebrow. 

Porthos takes a sharp breath -- and then smiles and rumbles and pulls Aramis up into a warm, *tight* hug -- 

So -- 

All of Porthos's hugs, from the very beginning, have been *precisely* this warm, this giving, this *beautiful* -- 

Porthos rumbles *more* -- 

Aramis holds his love tightly, *tightly* -- 

Gives himself *over* to all *parts* of him -- 

Porthos licks his ear -- but. He only does it twice before he seats Aramis side-saddle on his lap again. 

"My Porthos...?" 

He nods to Treville. "Daddy has more lessons for us." 

"Oh -- yes. *Please*," Aramis says, stroking a bit of his saliva from Porthos's beautiful mouth with his thumb before *looking* to Treville -- 

Who is looking at *both* of them with pride and -- love. 

Such -- 

But -- "Does Athos shut *you* out of his mind?" 

Treville laughs *softly* -- 

"Please *tell* me! You are his *lover* --" 

"And so is Thomas, and, no, he does not quiet *us*. He can feel us, and we can feel him -- when we reach." 

Aramis nods slowly. That is... better. He still must speak to Athos -- 

"Tomorrow, love," Porthos says, and licks the side of his throat. "Stay here tonight. With us." 

"Oh. But I do not have... ah." 

Porthos rumbles. "We *all* kept extra clothes in each other's rooms, love. Do you *really* think I *don't* still have yours?" 

Aramis blushes -- and smiles, and licks Porthos's beard. "Of course my Porthos speaks absolute truth and sense..." 

Porthos squeezes him -- 

"*Oof* -- oh." It is *Treville's* hand, and no one else's, on his hair -- 

Treville had gotten so close so *quickly* -- 

"I don't *have* to be this close, son." 

"No, I --" Aramis licks his lips and looks *up* into his *gentle* blue eyes. "You... have found your controls." 

"I have. It helped *immensely* to taste all the *problematic* scents from a few moments ago... well. Porthos has already told you some about how *that* works, yes?" 

"*Yes*, and -- he reacts too *harshly* to my *pain* --" 

"Oh fuck --" 

Treville snickers and -- strokes Aramis's hair. Just once. 

Aramis considers -- no. "I prefer a firmer touch than that." 

Treville flares his nostrils -- and cocks his head to the side. 

"Yes? What?" 

"Would you prefer that firmer touch from *me*, son?" 

Oh. That is... no. No. There is *one* way to do this: "I do not like... soft petting, soft strokes... they come from the people who do *not* know me. Sir." 

Treville rumbles... and pushes his thick, callused fingers into Aramis's hair -- 

Pushes in and *grips* -- 

He -- 

He *tugs* --

So *perfectly*, and Aramis moans because he must -- 

And Porthos makes a soft sound that seems caught *between* a growl and a rumble. 

"My Porthos? Do you object to this?" 

"Yes --" 

"Then --" 

"For *one* reason, love," Porthos says, and licks a *long* stripe along Aramis's cheek -- 

"I --" 

"The reason is this: It's going to *rapidly* get *very* hard to focus on anything *resembling* my lessons if I'm watching you -- feeling you, smelling you, *tasting* you -- getting touched by *Daddy*." 

Aramis *grunts* -- 

He had known this. 

He had known *just* this -- 

Treville *tugs* again -- 

Aramis *moans* -- 

And Porthos *growls* -- "Wait. There's another reason I object," he says, and -- *laughs*. Laughs *ruefully*. 

Aramis's heart is in his *throat* -- 

He reaches to *remove* Treville's hand from his hair -- 

"Wait a moment, son..." 

"*No*, I must --" 

"Shh," Treville says, and *catches* Aramis's right wrist -- 

Porthos catches his left -- 

"I -- my *Porthos*!" 

Porthos laughs more -- and nips Aramis's ear *as* he squeezes Aramis's wrist. "Easy, love. Just this: I *object* because I'm thinking about gripping your hair just that way. Just that way you *told* me that your *mother* used to grip your hair --" 

"Really, now," Treville says, rumbling and squeezing Aramis's *other* wrist -- and tugging -- 

"*Fuck* --" 

"-- and we've already talked about how you don't *want* me doing the same *things* with you that Daddy does." 

"I -- *fuck*. Ah..." 

And, just like that, he is being sniffed *thoroughly* -- 

By *two* human-shaped dogs -- 

Both of whom are *holding* him and *petting* him -- 

Treville is still *gripping* him by the *hair* -- 

And Aramis is -- very hard. 

"That you are, son. And... well. What are *your* conclusions, son?" 

"He *does* want us to do the same things -- or at least the same *sorts* of things -- to him at least *sometimes*, Daddy," Porthos says, and he's growling. He's -- 

"I apologize, my Porthos! I promise that I would not have kept this secret!" 

"For *long*, love...?" 

"Yes! No -- please, I would have told you *tonight*." 

Porthos growls and growls and -- *cups* Aramis's throat with one hand and his *balls* with the other. 

It -- oh. Aramis shivers and feels himself going *loose* -- 

"Will you discipline him, son?" 

"Need to. *Need* to." 

"Yes, you do," Treville says, quiet and low and steady. "But you must always keep your lead on at times like this. Your dog is with you no matter *what* you do -- or don't do. Remember that." 

Porthos *stops* growling -- 

His hands *flex* -- 

Aramis bites his *lip* to keep from making a *sound* before it is explicitly *demanded* -- 

And Porthos leans in and nuzzles him -- 

Licks him -- 

And then bites him *hard*, low on the jaw and *bruising* -- 

Aramis gasps and *shouts*, despite himself -- 

(*Don't* quiet yourself unless and until I *tell* you to do it, love.) 

"Yes, my Porthos! *Fuck* --" 

Porthos bites even *harder* for a moment -- 

Aramis whines -- 

Porthos *shudders* -- and pulls back. 

Aramis pants and pants and -- no. He evens his breathing. He will be good, he will be *correct* -- 

"Yeah, you will, love. Today is the *last* day you lie to me." 

"I --" 

"About *anything*," Porthos says, and squeezes Aramis's still-swollen balls *viciously* -- 

Aramis *screams* -- 

Pants and pants and -- 

And screams *again* -- Porthos is not letting *go*!

Porthos is *holding* him, *gripping* -- 

Treville is -- no longer gripping his hair, he -- 

He is giving them *room* -- 

Aramis sobs and *tosses* his head, tries -- *tries* -- 

No, he breathes, he breathes, he *takes* the pain, he must *take* the pain -- 

"It's yours, love," Porthos says, and licks him again -- 

Licks his cheek -- 

Licks the sweat from Aramis's throat *slowly* -- 

"Please! *Please*, my Porthos!" 

"*All* the pain is yours," Porthos says, and *pumps* Aramis's balls -- 

"Ah! *AHN*!" 

"*Everything* is yours, love. Everything *of* me." 

"My -- my..." 

"*Yours*," Porthos says, and starts pumping *rhythmically* -- 

"*Fuck* -- *please* --" 

"I'm *yours*, Aramis. *Say* it." 

"You're mine! And I'm yours! *Always*!" 

Porthos rumbles and sighs and rumbles and -- keeps pumping, keeps -- 

Keeps *pumping* -- 

Aramis shudders all over and *grips* at Porthos -- 

At his knee, at his *shoulder* -- 

Aramis whines and *sweats* -- 

He can *smell* himself --!

"You smell..." And Porthos rumbles more and *licks his entire face* -- "You smell bloody perfect, love." 

"I -- I --" 

"*Including* your pain..." 

"I! My -- my *Porthos* --" 

"'s just a *little* different than it was this *afternoon*, love," Porthos says, and starts pumping *faster* -- 

"Hnh -- nnh -- nngh ngh -- *Please*!" 

"Just a little more... *sharp*," Porthos says, and he's slurring his words a little -- 

His teeth are growing longer -- 

He -- 

His *tongue* -- 

Porthos *whuffs* -- "You're getting hotter for this -- or just for the fact that *I'm* getting hotter...? Mm? Answer." 

"I -- please -- please, I can't --" 

"You can... and you will." 

"*Fuck* -- I will -- I will -- it's you, my Porthos! Always for *you*!" 

"You want... mm. My loss of *control*...?" 

"I -- *no*!" 

Porthos *yips* in *shock*, but -- 

"You do not want that! You have never -- never -- *please*, my Porthos, *never* anything you do not *wish*!" 

And Porthos growls for this, growls so *hungrily* -- 

His *ears* begin to shift, flattening and spreading and -- 

"Oh, my Porthos, my -- ngh -- *please*, I will never lie! I will never lie *again*!" 

"I know *that*, love," Porthos says -- *growls* out as he nips Aramis all over his face and *throat* -- 

As he *continues* to pump Aramis's *balls* -- 

As he -- 

He keeps *disciplining* -- 

"Please, my Porthos, what *don't* you know!" 

Porthos growls a *laugh* -- and then bites Aramis's *throat* -- 

*Holds* Aramis's throat in his *teeth* -- 

He -- 

He is cutting off Aramis's *air*, and Aramis is hard, so very *hard* -- 

His breeches are slick, dirty -- 

*He* is dirty, and --

(What I *don't* know, love...) 

Please! Please tell me! I will tell my Porthos everything! All things!

(Hrr. I don't know -- yet -- just what I'm going to do to you if you *don't* spend for me in the next minute or so...) 

*Fuck* -- 

And then Porthos *tears* Aramis's breeches open, not -- not *bothering* with the laces -- 

He -- *fuck* -- 

And he smacks Aramis's cock hard enough to make Aramis *try* to scream -- 

(I can hear you *just* fine in here, love,) Porthos says, and smacks again -- 

Aramis jerks and tries to scream *again* -- 

Porthos *massages* his balls -- 

Aramis *whines* -- it comes out a *whistle*!

Porthos *growls* into his throat and smacks him again, again, *again*, and Aramis is writhing, twisting -- not fighting, never fighting, never his Porthos, but -- 

Oh, but there's so much, there's so -- 

It's so *hot*, so *heavy*, so *rough* -- 

Every callus is a *brand* on Aramis's most sensitive *skin*, and Aramis can't help but want more, so much more, so much *more* -- 

Please, please, let him earn *more* -- 

(*Aramis* -- I --) And Porthos *snarls* into his throat -- it feels like he's doing it into Aramis's *spine* -- and smacks him *harder* -- 

*Grips* him *harder* -- 

He -- 

Yes, my Porthos! Yes, *please*! 

(*Fuck* -- *spend*.) 

I -- I -- 

(I *won't* stop.) 

Aramis *grunts* and shudders all over, shakes like a *boy*, but he's already *shoving* into Porthos's hands, fast and needy and all but *graceless* -- 

He's already -- 

And Porthos is growling and growling and *giving* Aramis, giving him -- 

Oh, so -- 

He squeezes -- 

He *strikes* -- 

Black flowers begin to *bloom* at the edges of Aramis's vision -- 

Porthos *breaks* the bite -- 

Aramis gasps -- 

Porthos strikes him again, again and *again*, and Aramis is weeping, sobbing as he *spills*, as he surrenders all of himself for his love, his man, his *mate* -- 

Please, let it be *correct* -- 

He knows he was too *slow*, but -- 

But Porthos is growling and *yanking* him into a kiss, a deep, loving -- 

A lapping and whining and *growling* kiss, a *hungry* kiss, and Porthos cannot seem to *stay* pressed to him -- he pulls back many times to lick, to nuzzle, to *bite* -- 

Aramis pushes into all of it, he gives, he *gives* -- 

He arches and he *gives*, and he's still *shaking* -- 

There is *nothing* more correct than shaking for Porthos's touch. 

Porthos *snarls* into Aramis's *mouth* -- and *pumps* Aramis's balls again, again -- 

Aramis *shouts* into *Porthos's* mouth and *spills* more -- 

He must give, he must *give* -- 

He -- 

And he is *aware* that Porthos is lifting him into his arms -- 

He is aware that he is being *carried* back to the bedroom, laid out at the center of the bed, petted and stroked, cosseted and nuzzled and sniffed and *soothed* -- 

But mostly he is aware of the *blood* rushing back to his *balls*. It -- 

Aramis whimpers helplessly, *helplessly*, and knows that this feeling, too, is what he has earned -- 

That he must take all of it -- 

That he must *accept* -- 

Porthos holds him. *Holds* him -- 

Porthos rumbles into Aramis's ear and strokes and strokes -- 

And -- then there is another body on Aramis's other side. It -- 

*Treville* is holding him -- 

*Treville* is stroking him -- 

"Distracting you, just a little, from all that howling your balls are doing right now, mm?" 

"I -- I -- I have earned! This!" 

"Mm. You certainly have," Treville says, and licks Aramis's shoulder -- 

And tugs Aramis's *hair* -- 

"But it's time for your punishment to be over, son. It's time..." Treville sighs and strokes, with his other hand, down over Aramis's chest, briefly twining his fingers with Porthos's before continuing to stroke down to Aramis's hip. "It's time for things to be just a little bit... softer." 

"Please --" 

"It's time for your pack to have you in other ways, son..." And Treville's voice is gentle, open, *leading* -- 

*Inviting* -- 

Aramis cannot *think* -- 

He needs his *Porthos* -- 

(I'm right here, love. But it's time for you to listen to Daddy while I enjoy everything about you. About how good you are for me,) Porthos says, and nuzzles into Aramis's hair -- 

Pushes *closer* -- 

*Cups* Aramis's stinging, screaming -- yes, *howling* balls -- (I'm never leaving you by choice.) 

Aramis grunts -- and it feels like something that has been tight and *crumpled* in his chest for *decades* is being *forcibly* loosened by those words -- 

Forcibly *straightened* -- 

But -- "Never?" 

Porthos growls and nuzzles further into Aramis's hair -- his nose is cold. His face is partially-*shifted* -- 

He -- "My Porthos... needs my help?" 

(Your Porthos needs you to stay right here and get petted. By *both* me and Daddy. And I will never, ever leave you by choice. There is not one day since we met that I haven't wanted to take you home -- or *follow* you home.) 

Aramis smiles *helplessly* -- 

Breathes so much more *easily* -- 

So -- "My Porthos has always loved me..." 

(Always.) 

"I..." And Aramis smiles... somewhat differently... 

Porthos rumbles -- 

*Treville* rumbles and squeezes Aramis's *hip* -- 

Aramis hums and *wriggles* enough that he can feel his men -- his *pack* -- tighten their grips on him just so -- 

Porthos *presses* his cold nose to Aramis's *scalp* and rumbles and rumbles and -- 

"I only wonder, my Porthos, my Treville..." 

"We're listening, son," Treville says, and *strokes* Aramis's hip with his hard, rough thumb -- 

"I wonder how long *you* have... felt strongly for me, my Treville..." And Aramis turns to *look* at the man -- 

His greying hair is mussed endearingly. 

His beard and *moustache* are mussed *suggestively*, despite the fact that none of them have been... well. 

He raises an eyebrow -- and his pale blue eyes are warm, gentle, offering, inviting, loving, *loving* -- 

But. Aramis had asked a *question*. He raises his own eyebrow. 

Treville barks a laugh -- and inclines his head. "At first, you reminded me of my Reynard, of course. Wild, violent, fey, mercurial, more than a little mad --" 

"I did not *show* you these things!" 

Treville shows his teeth. "How poor a Captain did you think I was, mm?" 

"I --" 

"Was I *not* supposed to know my men, son? Right down to the heart of them...?" 

Aramis *blushes*, but -- "I -- worked hard not to show you these things, sir --" 

"Not very, ultimately --" 

"*Sir* --" 

"You did *not* think I was worth your *best* lies, son. Not at first," Treville says, and lolls his tongue -- for a moment. 

This -- this is more of a *flush*, but --"You -- saw through me." 

"I had, by the time we met, just a *bit* of experience with human nature, son --" 

"I --" 

"Including with brilliant, talented, open-minded, witty, creative... well. We both know -- now -- how much time I've spent with whores. Or don't we...?" 

Aramis licks his lips. "I... yes, but --" 

"Most men who whore around as much as I did don't spend that time *speaking* with the whores in question, yes, it's true," Treville says, and sighs in disgust. "You truly had less than no reason to see me coming -- other than a natural caution which is and *isn't* lacking in you when it comes to authority figures," he says, and raises his eyebrows in question. 

Aramis will answer. "My good mother taught me to always show *caution* with the very powerful, but..." He shrugs, as much as he can in this position. "She also taught me to show caution with my *fear*." 

(How's that...?) And Porthos nuzzles him more. 

Aramis shivers. "She told me, more than once, that just as the world must earn my *passions*, so must it earn my *fears*." 

Porthos rumbles and squeezes him -- 

*Treville* rumbles and smiles with obvious *delight*. "Thank you for that. It answers... mm. Any number of questions. But, to continue answering *your* question... it did *not* take long for me to *stop* seeing my Reynard in you, and to start seeing..." Treville flares his nostrils -- 

His eyes *gleam* -- 

And, abruptly, it's wrong that Treville is fully-clothed in this bed save for his shoes -- 

"Son --" 

It's -- it's an ache in Aramis's skin, and it's -- 

It's *wrong* -- 

Treville *barks* for attention -- 

Porthos *yips* -- and Aramis can *feel* him... shifting. *Changing* back to human-form -- 

Oh -- 

"Nngh -- sorry about that, love. My thoughts and emotions were bleeding into yours, just a little --" 

"All is well! I *also* feel that Treville is wearing too many clothes --" 

"Do you, son?" And *that*... was much sharper, much harder -- it is another call for attention. 

A *demand*, truly, and -- Aramis turns back to face Treville, to give *him* his honesty. "I would like to..." He licks his lips. "I will move in with you, and Porthos. I will allow you to adopt me, to make me *officially* a part of this pack --" 

"Son. You couldn't *be* more a part of this pack than you are now. You're *bound* to each and every one of us now, and it's only my power -- and the others' politesse -- that's been keeping you from feeling distinctly *crowded* since the moment Porthos bit you the *first* time." 

"I -- no --" 

"*Yes*, son --" 

"I was not disagreeing with *this* thing, my Treville. I -- I promise this," Aramis says, and lets the plea stay in his eyes -- 

Lets himself -- 

He reaches out, and rests a hand on Treville's chest, through his shirt. "Please." 

Treville frowns, but -- "I'm listening, son. Tell us." 

Aramis smiles ruefully and looks to Porthos -- who smiles back and licks his *mouth*. Aramis licks him back before returning his attention to Treville."I believe my Porthos knows already, and *understands*, but --" 

Treville inhales with a sharp growl -- "You want to start getting *used* to me." 

"*Yes*, and --" 

"To the *idea* of me, and -- to the idea of sex and sexuality -- oh, son, this... are you asking me to seduce you?" 

*Is* he? It seems, to him, to be two different *things*, but -- 

But... 

But he is being *thoroughly* sniffed, once more, by two magical dogs -- 

He is being studied, and learned, and -- 

And there have been so many *times* in his past when he has wished for -- not *just* this. He could not have *imagined* this! But... 

To *be* studied. To be -- 

To be *desired* as the *object* of study -- 

To *have* a lover who would look at him as someone endlessly fascinating, endlessly diverting, worthy of questions and hours of *conversation* without -- necessarily -- being thought of as hopelessly *strange* -- 

Treville -- coughs. 

Into Aramis's *neck* -- 

Porthos *yips* a laugh into Aramis's *ribs* -- 

Aramis growls and sits *up* -- 

And they *both* shove him back *down*. They -- 

"I object to this!" 

"We weren't laughing at *you*, love," Porthos says, and he is -- he is trying to *swallow* yips -- 

"Nor were we laughing at your -- beautiful -- desires," Treville says, and his eyes are *alight* -- 

Aramis narrows his *own* eyes -- 

"Fuck -- shit -- Daddy, *tell* him!" 

"*Laurent*, son. Athos's father --" 

"Yes, I *know*. What *about* --" 

"If you *ever* find yourself thinking that your mate, or I, or any other loved one of yours has *not* been asking you enough questions? Or, perhaps, *has* been taking the beauty and uniqueness of your *intellectualism* for *granted*...?" 

Aramis blinks -- and considers. 

And -- licks his lips. 

And. "He converses... on many topics?" 

Treville smiles warmly, happily -- *proudly*. "He's read *his* bible from cover to cover, too --" 

"*Oh* --" 

"Oh, *fuck* -- *Daddy* --" 

"Oh, but you must -- why have you not *introduced* -- and what is his *religious* affiliation?" 

"Fuck fuck --" 

Treville hums *obnoxiously* -- 

"You must *tell* me!" 

"When I *asked* him about it -- which was quite some time ago, so he *might* have changed his mind --" 

"I --" 

"He said that he considered himself a Thoroughly *Irritated* Christian, With Any Number Of Grievances Which Needed To Be Addressed," Treville says, and raises an eyebrow. 

Aramis blinks -- 

Porthos *splutters* -- 

"Does he... pray?" 

"Vigorously, son. He's never been the sort of man to let a disagreement fester." 

Aramis considers this -- 

Aramis *frowns* -- 

Porthos is yipping again and *wheezing*, as well -- 

And Treville is smiling gently and cupping his face. "Shall we go back to speaking about sexuality, now?" 

"I... yes." 

"Right you are," he says, and *strokes* Aramis's cheekbone. "I *can* seduce you if you feel it would be easier on you." 

"I do not *want* easier, sir. I want *you*." 

"Mm, well..." And Treville's smile is much sharper, for all of its good cheer. "*Some* would say that there are few things more suited to my fundamental *self* than the dedicated seduction of... young men." 

Aramis... is blinking again. 

Porthos is *barking* laughter -- 

Reaching past Aramis to *smack* Treville -- 

Treville catches Porthos's wrist and licks his palm, slowly and *wetly* -- all without looking away from *Aramis's* eyes. 

"Oh, *fuck*, Daddy --" 

"Shh. I *believe* your mate has some questions..." 

Aramis blushes. "I... had not put quite enough thought into *when* your affairs with Athos and Thomas began."

Treville hums. "Understandable... as I completely failed to show you that side of myself." 

"*Yes*, and that --" 

"Unconscionably dishonest, yes. Would you like to see it now...?"

"I -- what you give to *Athos*?" 

"No, son. What I give to Athos is *for* Athos, as he is the only one who brings it out of me -- though I would be lying if I said it wasn't *similar* to what my Porthos brings out of me, or, of course, Thomas." 

"You are saying... that you have something -- someone -- for *me*." And Aramis raises an eyebrow. 

"From the very *first* day, Aramis. I -- mm. You're a remarkably easy... young man to dream about." 

Aramis feels himself blush *hot* -- but -- "Am I so young, sir?"

Treville rumbles -- 

Porthos growls and strokes Aramis more firmly, more *possessively* -- 

"That depends entirely on you, son," Treville says, and his eyes are warm, his wicked smile is full of *care* -- 

*Promise* -- 

And what would Aramis's good mother's shade say about *this*?

He has given himself -- *properly* -- to his mate, and will *continue* to do so -- every *day* if at all possible!

He is in the process of re-learning honesty, care -- 

He is -- 

Maman, I have a *family*, just as you *promised*, and I -- 

But he cannot feel her when he reaches, cannot touch anything but the warmth and pleasure of his memories of her, cannot taste anything but the *wisps* of her musk -- 

Her pleasure and her pleasure in *him* -- and. 

Perhaps that is enough?

In this moment?

Porthos nuzzles into Aramis's throat. "All right, love?" 

"Oh -- I -- it's --" 

"Don't say that it's nothing, son," Treville says, and raises an eyebrow. "None of us want you to be punished more right now." 

Aramis *flushes* -- "I was -- I was thinking of my good mother. I was --" He swallows, and pushes back into Porthos's strong arms, just a little. 

"Yeah, love?" 

"I was trying to hear, in my mind, what she would say for a moment like *this* one," Aramis says, and smiles ruefully at *Treville*.

Treville inhales sharply, gaze turning serious and *losing* much of its *heat* -- 

"Oh -- no --" 

"Shh, son. I need you to think for us for a moment --" 

"I --" 

"Do you need us to walk this *back*? Mm? It doesn't have to be forever if we do, son. But there's nothing wrong with taking time --" 

"I do *not* need time, sir," Aramis says, and glares at Treville. "I -- it is only -- I have been hurt, and hurt *myself*, when I haven't listened for my good mother's voice. It is *reflex* to *check* -- when I can." 

Treville nods thoughtfully -- and cups and caresses Aramis's face -- 

"Oh --" 

And Porthos licks Aramis's ear. "*Did* she have anything to say about things like this, love?" 

"I... not enough," Aramis says, and smiles ruefully. "Not enough before -- before my blood-father *stole* me away from her, and her good teaching --" 

Porthos *and* Treville growl -- 

"Yes. Yes, *this*. But -- she came to be certain, when I was still young, that I would eventually come to need more than only the man who would be my true mate." 

"I'm still a bit... uhh... about that..." 

"Belt up, son. Your mother would've known *just* the same about you if she'd lived long enough to see you mature a bit more. Assuming Ife didn't beat her to the knowledge." 

"Right, but --" 

"Shh. It's Aramis's turn," Treville says, and grins *obnoxiously* at Porthos. 

"And you can just sod *off*, you know --" 

Aramis clears his *throat* -- 

"Uh -- after we all listen to Aramis talk. Right now," Porthos says, and licks Aramis vigorously for long moments. 

It is *impossible* to stay irritated with him when he does this thing -- 

Porthos rumbles and licks him *more* -- 

"Here, son," Treville says, tilting Aramis's chin up and licking his throat slowly, *meditatively* -- 

Licking *and* kissing, alternately roughly and *softly* -- 

Aramis moans and tries -- 

Tries to remember what he was going to *say* -- 

Porthos *pauses* his laps to Aramis's ear. "You were saying -- mm. You were saying your good mum knew you'd need more than just *me*." 

"There -- there is -- you are not only one *thing* --" 

"I know, love. You're not hurting me with this; I promise," Porthos says, and licks up into Aramis's hairline -- 

"I -- I --" 

Treville nips Aramis's collarbone and hums -- 

"Unh -- I -- but --" 

"Tell him *why* he's not hurting you, son." 

"Oh -- uh. Right. You're not letting *anyone* fuck you until *I* do it *again* -- that's one --" 

"Oh, yes!" 

"You're *definitely* not letting anyone *knot* you until I do it -- probably two or three times -- and that's two --" 

"I am very eager for this!" 

"And --" Porthos rumbles and rumbles into Aramis's ear -- 

"Yes? Yes what?" 

"Like your taste in people, love. *Really* like your taste in -- mm. If you *really* want to make me feel good all the time?" 

"I do!" 

"You'll make sure I can always -- at the *very* least -- *smell* you getting molested all lovingly and such by all the wonderful people in your wonderful head." And Porthos is *grinning*, but -- 

"My *Porthos*, there are not so many --" 

"Love. You haven't even *met* Laurent, yet, and you're already thinking about tossing him off while you interrogate him about *scripture*." 

Aramis -- stops. 

Considers -- 

Considers the very *many* things about his thoughts which may very well be obvious to the people with whom he shares a *pack* -- 

"Not all things, son," Treville says, and cups Aramis's *cock* -- 

"Oh --" 

"But most, love. Definitely *most*," Porthos says, lifting Aramis's leg and tugging it back over his own -- 

Spreading and *baring* Aramis -- 

"You like that, love? Being wide open for us...?" 

Aramis feels himself blushing *hot* -- 

He looks to *Treville* -- all the heat is back in his gaze. 

All the *desire*, and -- 

"I -- I -- please, I would like to know what you wish to *do* with me." 

Treville rumbles -- 

*Porthos* rumbles -- 

"What I *wish* to do, son...?" 

"Yes --" 

"Not... what I *will* do...?" 

Aramis grunts and -- blushes. Just -- 

"Not what I'll do... with my -- *our* -- lovely little boy?" And Treville's *voice* is rumbling, low, teasing and promising at *once* -- 

Or perhaps that is his big, rough hand on Aramis's cock -- 

Caressing and stroking so lightly, so *gently* -- 

So -- 

Over and over, and it doesn't take long before Aramis's cock is *jerking* for the treatment, foreskin slipping back and back down his thickening shaft -- 

"Oh, that's nice, Daddy..." 

"I agree wholeheartedly, son, but... try this," Treville says, and cups Aramis's cock more firmly -- 

"Please --" 

He uses his thumb-callus just beneath the glans -- 

"Oh, *please*!" 

"Just this, little one...?" 

"I -- I -- I am not so -- I do not --" 

"Shh, shh, tell us what you need, mm?" And Treville slows his touches, his *caresses* -- 

Aramis moans and flushes more deeply, more *hotly* -- 

Porthos growls and holds him *close* -- "Go on, love. Give it up for us..." 

"I -- I want --" Aramis squeezes his eyes shut -- 

But Porthos nips his *cheek* -- "Not that. Not *ever* that." 

"I -- oh. I... am not... to hide?" 

"Not from me. Not from your *pack*." 

Aramis moans and shivers -- 

*Squirms* -- 

Porthos pushes his hard, *hard* cock against Aramis's arse -- 

Treville's eyes are *gleaming* -- 

And they desire him. They *both* desire him -- *all* of him in this moment, because Treville shows no compunctions about looking *deep* within Aramis for every secret thought, every secret dream and wish and fantasy -- 

(I'm looking, too, love...) 

Aramis shivers more and smiles, smiles with all of himself, *gives* his smile to his *loves* -- 

(Oh, Aramis...) 

"There is nothing to fear!" 

Treville rumbles, eyes flaring *bright* -- "Not from us, son. *Never* from us." 

"You will *always* -- but why didn't you *say* you would always *seek* within me?" 

Porthos licks a long stripe up from Aramis's jaw line -- 

"Oh --" 

Treville *massages* Aramis's cock --

"Oh, yes --" 

"Not everyone appreciates that sort of thing, son --" 

"*I* --" 

"You told us you wanted it, all right," Porthos says, and growls into Aramis's ear -- 

"*Yes*, and --" 

"We did have to check *first*, son," Treville says, and smiles *benignly*. 

Aramis narrows his *eyes* -- 

"Porthos, why don't you..." 

"On it, Daddy," Porthos says, and *immediately* slips two fingers *deep* into Aramis's arse -- 

"UNH --" 

"That's it, love. That's... mm. We all know you're still *nice* and slick..." 

"From -- from *you*!" 

Porthos growls. "And that's just the way it should be. Isn't it." 

Aramis clenches twice *fast*, groaning and *shoving* himself back -- 

Trying to *urge* Porthos to *take* -- 

To -- to *fuck* -- 

"Mm. Now there's an *excellent* thought," Treville says, cupping Aramis's hypersensitive balls and *rolling* them in his palm -- 

His hard palm --

His *rough* palm -- 

Aramis is sweating, panting -- 

Waiting for the *squeeze*, the *grip* -- 

"Is that what you want from me, son? More pain...?"

That is for my mate! "I -- I..." 

Treville rumbles with great and *obvious* pleasure. "Not to worry, son -- that was *more* than clear enough," he says, and works Aramis's balls gently, *sweetly* -- 

"*Please*!" 

"Here, love," Porthos says, and starts to thrust, starts to *twist* his fingers so --

So -- 

And Treville is stroking his cock again, stroking so lightly, so *easily* -- 

"You're *perfectly* slick for us, son. Just the way you always should be..." 

"Nnh --" 

"Didn't I say I'd keep you oiled-up right for me, love?" 

"Oh -- *fuck* --"

"He's clearly decided that he has to *help* you with that, son." 

Porthos laughs *evilly* -- and hums as he *crooks* his fingers -- 

Aramis *shouts* -- 

"Oh, yeah -- mm. He's a good boy, is our Aramis." 

"The *best* boy," Treville says, and squeezes Aramis's cock gently -- 

Squeezes again -- 

*Again* -- "So -- he always gives his loves *exactly* what they need. Don't you, son." 

"Please! I -- you -- what *you* need! I must --" 

And Treville *grins*, moustache even *more* mussed -- "You're giving me any *number* of things I've needed for... quite some time, little one." 

"I --" 

"Why, just look at this perfect little cock, twitching and drooling all over my big, rude hand..." 

Aramis hears himself make a *desperate* sound -- 

"This is why, you know," Porthos says. 

"Yes, son?" And Treville drags Aramis's slick over and over Aramis's cock, plays with Aramis's foreskin, tugs it *lightly* -- 

So -- 

So *lightly* -- 

Aramis is *writhing* for it -- 

Clenching on Porthos's fingers and *urging* himself into Treville's good *hands* -- 

"Oh, son... mm. Just keep moving for me. Just keep... showing us *exactly* how much you need to be *touched*." 

Aramis *whimpers* -- 

"But you were saying, Porthos? And work that little pleasure-button of his. I want to hear him *mewl*." 

Porthos laughs *softly* -- and begins to crook on every -- 

Every *thrust* -- 

Aramis's cock is *spasming* -- 

He doesn't *know* what sounds he's making --

"They're mewls, love. Also, Daddy --" 

"Yes, son? And have I mentioned how *badly* I want to see you knotting your lovely little mate? Plugging him so tight and *deep* that --" 

"Daddy." 

"Mm?" 

"If you ever -- *ever* -- wonder why it's *only* Laurent who's willing to gag you during sex? I want you to think about this." 

"I." 

"Think *hard*, Daddy." 

"Hm. I... suppose I'll do just that," Treville says. "But, for now..." And he squeezes Aramis again, squeezes carefully and *sweetly*, cock and balls -- "Do *you* enjoy my more gregarious moments, son...?" 

"Please -- I -- *please* --" 

"Should I whisper right into your soft little mouth...?" And Treville leans in and *nips* Aramis's lips, upper and lower and upper again -- 

Porthos begins fucking him *faster* -- 

Aramis *whines* -- 

"Oh, son..." And Treville is *breathing* into Aramis's mouth, and he smells like very good brandy, tastes like -- like -- "Whine again, mm?" 

"I -- I --" 

Porthos crooks *hard* -- 

Aramis whimpers -- 

"Good enough," Treville says, and kisses him deeply, *hotly* -- 

Aramis whimpers *more*, moans, and he's still shoving into Treville's gentle, *expert* fist -- 

Shoving *back* onto Porthos's *vicious* and expert fingers -- 

He is sweating so *much* -- 

He cannot *concentrate* -- 

"Just take it, love. That's all you have to do," Porthos says, and nuzzles Aramis's ear -- 

Please! 

(Feel this, son. Take this and *feel*,) Treville says, and -- 

His tongue lengthens *in* Aramis's mouth -- 

He gives Aramis's the dog's tongue -- 

A *different* dog than the one within Porthos -- 

Aramis blushes and *bucks* -- 

"We'll revisit *that*, love..." 

I!

(We certainly will, son...) 

Please -- 

(*Suck*.) 

Aramis obeys, only *obeys*, and he's slurping around Treville's long, flat tongue, mobile tongue, *animal* -- 

He is leaking so *much* slick -- 

Treville's strokes *glide* over his length, over and over, and he wishes they were more harsh, a little more -- 

(Anything you wish, little one...) 

Aramis's eyes fly open *wide* -- 

And *then* Treville tightens his grip just *so* -- and works him, *works* him, even as Porthos starts to push in with a third finger, starts to -- 

And it hits, all at once: *This* is his life now. 

*This* is the life he has chosen, willingly. He has a mate, and he has a *pack*, and, whenever he *wishes* it, he can drown in love and *touch* -- 

Expert and wicked, *loving* -- 

(We'll never let you fall, son...) 

"It's *yours*," Porthos says, and starts fucking him in *short* strokes, short and -- almost *rutting* -- 

It -- 

"*Promising* thrusts, love. What you'll *get* once my knot is in you, and you can't get away even a little..." 

Aramis moans around Treville's tongue -- 

Clenches *violently* and shakes -- 

Treville hums a laugh and squeezes his balls -- 

Bounces them on his *palm* -- 

Aramis *gasps* -- 

(Close. Your. *Mouth*.) 

Aramis hears himself make a *garbled* sound, messy and loud -- 

Messy and *drooling* when Treville begins to *fuck* Aramis's mouth with his long, doggy tongue -- 

Aramis moans and clenches, jerks -- 

He needs *more*! 

(Then *suckle*, little one. We'll see that you get it...) 

"That we will, love." 

Aramis nods and nods and -- suckles, obeys, *obeys*, and Treville is growling and humming into his mouth -- 

And Porthos is twisting and thrusting, twisting and *thrusting* his fingers, deeper again, promising other *things* -- 

"The same thing, ultimately..." 

And Treville is pumping Aramis's balls rhythmically, *inescapably*, and even though it's not so painful as what Porthos was doing, not so *cruel* -- 

"It still lights you right up inside. Doesn't it, love." 

Yes! Y-yes -- and I --

(It's all *yours*,) Treville says, pulling out of Aramis's mouth and licking him all over his sweaty face, his sweaty *throat* -- (Delicious *boy*.) 

"*Please*!" 

"Give it to him *faster*," Treville says -- *slurs* around that *tongue*, before pulling it back. "*Make* him come on your fingers, son." 

"Oh -- *shit* --" 

Aramis *grunts* -- 

"Make him *feel* you, son --" 

"I -- I *always* feel my Porthos --" 

"But there's nothing quite like that, mm?" And Treville's tongue is *peeking* just a little as he looks *into* Aramis, as he works Aramis's cock, Aramis's *balls*. 

"I -- *please*, I --"

"There's *nothing* quite like knowing that your man doesn't even *need* to use his cock to take. You. *Apart*." And Treville raises his *eyebrows* -- 

Like the *Captain* -- 

Like the Captain when he is teaching -- no. When he has already *taught* a lesson, and he is waiting for his (boys) men to catch *up*. 

Aramis must not be slow -- 

Aramis must give *all* -- 

"That's *right*, love," Porthos says, and *bites* the back of Aramis's neck -- 

Aramis gasps and *shouts* -- 

"That's how he's going to bite you when he knots you, son -- almost," Treville says, and strokes him faster -- 

*Faster* -- "Please!" 

"Mm. Once he's buried *deep* inside you? Once he's opened you wide with that hot, *fat* knot of his?" 

"Unh -- I -- I --" 

"Once he's *tied* you, son, and every *breath* makes that knot *pulse* against your poor, abused little pleasure-button --" 

"*Fuck* -- I -- *please*!" 

"Should I let my little boy curse like that...?" And Treville slows his strokes *down* -- 

Aramis's eyes fly open wide *as* his jaw drops -- 

"Mm?" 

Porthos rumbles a laugh -- but *doesn't* slow down, doesn't *soften* his hard, *hard* thrusts -- 

In and *in*, in and *in* -- 

Aramis *aches* for it -- 

Needs so -- 

But then Treville drags his short thumbnail up and up and *up* the underside of Aramis's cock -- 

So *slowly* -- 

Aramis hears himself make -- a noise -- 

(Beautiful noise, love. Make it *all* the bloody time,) Porthos says, and bites *harder* -- 

Aramis *yells* -- 

Treville *squeezes* Aramis's cock -- 

"Please, you must always discipline me!" And the words had tumbled out of his mouth like children running from strict and *boring* lessons, but -- 

"Mm. You meant that, though. Didn't you," Treville says, and begins to stroke -- 

And stroke -- 

And stroke *fast* -- 

"Nuh -- unh -- *unh* -- please yes!" 

(Good boy...) 

"Good *son*," Treville says, and licks most of his own face. "And you'll never have to worry about me confusing the discipline I must provide for the *pain* your *mate* must provide..." 

Aramis flushes -- 

Breathes -- 

Tries to arch but winds up writhing, clenching around Porthos's long fingers, thick *fingers* -- 

Bucking and *thrusting* into Treville's fist, his hard and callused *fist* -- 

Over and over and -- 

(That's right, love. We've got you.) 

"We won't let go, son..." 

(Not even after you spend, love --) 

"Not even after *we* spend, son." 

(You're not *leaving* here tonight, love...) 

Aramis shudders and shudders and -- drops -- 

Feels himself flexing *open* -- 

"You said you'd let me *adopt* you, son," Treville says, and squeezes with both hands -- 

"Ahn!" 

"What do you think that means to a man like me, mm...?" 

(We'll never let you go.) 

"What do you think that means for the rest of your *life*." 

"I -- I --" 

(You're *ours*,) Porthos says, and bites *harder*, crooks with all three *fingers* -- 

Aramis screams -- 

And *chokes* on it immediately, because Treville squeezes Aramis's balls *firmly* and strokes Aramis's cock the same way, the same -- 

He gives *discipline* without *pain*, and he is smiling into Aramis's eyes the entire time -- 

He is giving *himself* to Aramis, and -- 

"I always will, son. I always... mm. Porthos...?" 

(Right you are, Daddy,) Porthos says, and begins all but *shoving* his fingers against Aramis's pleasure-button, over and -- 

Again -- 

And there is no pause, no chance to take -- 

A *breath* -- 

"Why don't you spend for us, son?" 

Aramis's cock *spasms* in Treville's hard *grip* -- 

But then Porthos growls and presses the tip of his fourth finger against Aramis's rim -- 

Presses so -- 

"You'll take it, son. You don't have *any* choice about that..." 

And Aramis's stomach drops as his cock flexes and *aches* -- 

As he shoves himself back and tries to *take* -- 

As Porthos's bite breaks the *skin* and he *snarls* -- 

Slurps and *sucks* and *shoves* his free arm under Aramis's chest, *clutches* Aramis's chest -- 

Oh, just like -- 

And Aramis can see it, see how it will *be* with him on his face and knees and Porthos's mounting him as a man *and* as a dog, Porthos having him while all the pack looks on, critiques, shares -- 

Shares in *him* -- 

*Knows* him -- 

"You're *ours*, son --" 

(And we'll love you until the bloody *sun* goes out. Now *spend*," Porthos says and squeezes Aramis's chest *hard* -- 

Squeezes the *breath* out of him, and he hadn't had the chance to *take* a full breath -- 

He can't -- 

He is gasping and getting nothing, wheezing out -- 

Everything is hot, so hot, so *hard*, but -- 

There is only one thing he must do -- 

(That's right, love...) 

There is only -- only -- 

And then Porthos crooks his fingers *viciously*, and there is no thought, no air, no *vision* -- just the sensation of his hungry mouth falling open on a scream with no sound -- 

Just the sensation of his spine *igniting* with pleasure which both does and does *not* seem to start where he has been *bitten* -- 

And his cock is aching, jerking, spasming in Treville's rough hand -- 

Treville and Porthos are *rumbling* -- 

Aramis is *spurting*, spilling out what feels like important portions of what makes him who he *is*, but he does not know when it had *started*, it -- 

He has been on the edge so long, he has spent so *much*, he has -- 

(Just give it *all* to us, love...) 

Yours! It is yours!

(That's *just* right.)

Please, I -- I can't -- 

"You can't *stop*," Treville says. "And we don't want you to." 

(Not a bit of it, love. Keep *spending*.) 

And he feels himself spurt again -- 

*Spasm* again, and he isn't *certain* if he spurts that time -- 

He cannot *see* -- 

(You spent *just* the right amount. Didn't he, Daddy?) 

"Certainly, I'm having a *grand* time sucking it off my fingers..." 

Oh -- 

Oh, Aramis wants to *see* -- 

Porthos laughs and -- kisses Aramis's throat. Not bites. 

My Porthos -- 

"You could open your eyes, love..." 

I... 

"You could take a deep *breath* and open your eyes, even," he says, and -- he is less *clutching* Aramis's chest than petting him. Stroking -- caressing and loving him again. 

Hm. 

Treville rumbles and strokes Aramis's face with damp -- not slick or sticky -- fingers. "That *could* be a bit beyond him at the moment, son." 

"Mm. We did work our little lad *hard*..." 

Fuck... 

"And you're *going* to work him even harder than *that*. Aren't you." 

Porthos rumbles and rumbles -- kisses Aramis's throat again. "That I am, Daddy." 

The thoughts which had been forming in Aramis's mind -- he does not know what they were, but he is certain that they *were* thoughts -- scatter like dandelion fluff in the wind, leaving only warmth, anticipation, and... something. Definitely *something*. 

Porthos and Treville sniff him. 

Thoroughly -- 

And then go back to rumbling and petting him. "You smell right *blissful*, love." 

Aramis turns that thought over in his mind -- tries to. He can't quite manage that degree of... something. 

Not when he knows, with all of himself, that he is in the *middle* of an interlude which will take all of his pieces, all of his *shards*, and *rearrange* them into a picture more pleasing to his loves. 

The petting *pauses* -- 

"Love. You know all your pieces are just right for us just as they *are*, right?"

Aramis sighs and... snuggles. "I must always be better, and improve myself whenever possible for my loves --" 

"I --" 

"Just as my *loves* must always seek to improve themselves for *me*." 

Porthos and Treville share a look -- 

Treville wags his head judiciously -- 

"Right, all right, I can *absolutely* go with that, love. We'll all get better and better. Every day." 

"That we will, sons," Treville says, and steps out of the *bed* -- 

"My Treville --" 

"At ease, son. *One* of us wasn't smart enough to strip down in a *timely* fashion, and these breeches are technically a beverage in clothing form." 

Porthos coughs -- 

Aramis blinks -- 

Considers what he has *seen* of how much *Porthos* leaks now... 

Considers what he has been able to *feel* of how much Porthos *spends* now... 

"Uhh. Yeah, love, it's like that *all* the time now. Every time." 

"Every..." 

"Every time, yeah," Porthos says. "We can... um... when the two of us are making love, we can... uh..." 

Treville laughs in a very juvenile fashion while he strips down.

He continues to do so long after he's back in the bed with them. 

*Porthos* is petting Aramis in a manner so nervous that it is *clear* he believes Aramis will have some *objection* to being utterly filled -- every day, many times a day -- with his good, wild spend -- 

"Right, well, I feel better now." 

"So --" Treville laughs harder. "So do *I* --" 

"I was not talking about *your* good, wild spend, sir." 

Treville laughs *harder* -- 

Laughs while all but *crushing* Aramis between himself and Porthos in a truly wonderful hug -- 

Aramis chooses, with all of himself, to think *only* of the hug. 

For now. 

~


	12. Heresy

Laurent has chosen the study for this evening's appointment, because it seems appropriately intimate without being grasping, but -- 

He frowns. 

There is wine, and water. 

There are stronger alcoholic beverages well within reach -- Laurent *knows* the people his little brother Treville *and* his little *sister* *Amina* tend to associate with, and it is, as ever, best to be prepared. 

There will be a light meal served to the specifications Amina had sent -- 

A very *strange* set of specifications -- no, Laurent will not judge. 

He -- 

He glares at the -- far more comfortable than the usual sort; Marie-Angelique had been quite exacting -- wingback chairs near the already-lit fire that he will *ask* Jason Blood to share with him -- 

He *stops* glaring -- and admits that he is frankly at a *loss* in terms of how to proceed. 

Which is, of course, when his senses *fill* with musk, warmth, pleasure -- and the loving amusement of his Marie-Angelique. 

His wife. 

His *mate* -- and, truly, that is *one* of the reasons why he *must* discuss matters with Jason Blood -- 

Marie-Angelique rumbles that distinctly *wolfish* sound -- 

That -- 

It comes from her deep, generous *chest*, and Laurent is, abruptly, capable of thinking of nothing of any import. 

He turns and buries his lengthening muzzle against her throat -- 

Pulls her *close* -- 

"Husband." 

"Wife, I --" 

"Husband. I will not allow you to *muss* me before our guest arrives," she says, reaching up to *pat* the side of his muzzle in -- he must admit this -- absolutely none of the *promising* ways. 

Laurent sighs and stands straight. "As you say, wife. I... require assistance," he says, shifting back to human form and smiling ruefully. 

She inclines her head. "You were thinking that you were at a *loss* when it comes to the discussion you must have with Jason Blood." 

"Yes, that, and --" 

"Perhaps because he is *neither* a recruit you will be training, nor a *soldier* you will be folding into an already-existing unit, nor a sister you mean to make your own, nor a *wife* you mean to make your own...?" 

Laurent... frowns. "I have not felt quite this socially limited since I was an *adolescent*." 

Marie-Angelique waves her soft hand. "Then, as now, you had *numerous* other fine qualities, husband." 

"I --" 

"Husband. All will be well," she says, and -- looks at him. 

Pointedly. 

Almost *sternly*, which -- 

"Wife..." 

"I am listening," she says, in the *precise* tone she tends to use for those times when she has already made a decision about something, codified it into law for their marriage, and now means to entertain his ideas in the interest of making him feel *useful*. 

Laurent -- frowns. 

Marie-Angelique growls. Quietly. 

"Wife, it is only -- you and Amina have given the rest of us no time whatsoever to come to *know* this mage --" 

"We," she says -- very pointedly indeed -- "are giving you that time *now*." 

Laurent opens his mouth -- 

Closes it -- 

He tries again. "I believe I feel somewhat pressured to come to one and *only* one conclusion, wife," he says, and raises an eyebrow. 

She reaches up to *caress* his face, making Laurent feel every second since he'd last shaved his cheeks -- 

Every *bristle* which makes him cut a less than *adequate* figure next to the perfection of his bride -- but. 

*But*, as ever when she does this, her eyes gleam with a covetous light -- 

Gleam *literally*, now that they are both -- *all* -- werewolves -- 

Her tongue peeks *hungrily* -- 

Laurent growls because he *must* -- 

She *jumps* as if shocked -- 

"Wife." 

"Mm. *Indeed*, husband," she says, flushed and glowing with a light sheen of sweat. "But... two things." 

"I am listening." 

"And planning *multiple* brilliant campaigns against my person, yes. I -- *one*: Our guest will be arriving in *moments* --" 

"*Damn* --" 

"And *two*: I -- and *our* sweet sister Amina -- want only the best for this pack. The simple fact of the matter is that neither you nor our brothers can be there to provide for us or the children at all times, and in all ways -- do *not* destroy the furnishings, husband." 

Laurent... takes a breath -- 

*Removes* his hands from the nearest perfectly innocent wingback chair -- 

And nods. "We trust the two of you to take the lead because we must, and because you are both entirely superior in leadership roles. I -- have been acting as though I do *not* feel that way," he says, and winces painfully. "I wish to apologize." 

"You may do so at length... later," she says, eyes flashing wickedly. "For now...?" 

"I must decide how I am to *meet* with -- and *treat* with --" 

"Our new *brother*," she says, and folds her hands in front of her abdomen in a truly poor impression of patience. 

Still -- Laurent need not *precisely* wince again. "I cannot help but feel that Treville would be the best person for --" 

"*Treville*, if you'll recall, is meeting with our new *sister* -- who is the mother of Porthos's *mate*." 

Laurent resists the urge to lick his lips -- 

*Strengthens* himself on the images -- the many, many images -- of his dear little brother hunting fervently for *escape* routes -- 

Marie-Angelique rumbles. "Our Amina has shared many moments of Treville's eyes rolling like a panicked *horse's*." 

Laurent hums. "Perhaps I should feel better about my loss of aplomb...?" 

"Absolutely not." 

Laurent *coughs* -- 

Marie-Angelique giggles -- and turns for the door in a whirl of skirts which brings her scents to Laurent in a wash, a rush, a *flood* -- 

Laurent *growls* -- 

"You'll do fine, husband," she says, and pauses at the door. "And then? I'll be waiting." 

Laurent grips -- only grips -- the back of the chair. "As you say, wife." 

"Mm." She leaves -- 

Laurent watches -- and inhales -- every moment of it. 

And then he begins to pace -- slowly.

*Measuredly*. 

He uses the rhythms of it to calm himself, to *organize* his thoughts into something tactically useful -- 

Marie-Angelique truly *had* said that Blood was no longer certain if he was somewhere over six hundred years old or somewhere over *seven* hundred -- 

What sort of mind must that sort of age *engender*...?

What sort of *priorities* -- but. 

There's something strange about the study. Something which *wasn't* strange a bare few moments ago. Laurent *stops* pacing and looks around, reflexively reaching for the rapier he isn't *wearing* -- 

And *nearly* as reflexively starting to shift. He'll ruin these leathers if that continues, but if there is a *threat* -- 

In the place where his wife and sons live and *sleep* -- 

Laurent growls and crouches, preparing to spring -- 

"Oh, dear, I -- hm. Captain de la Fère, I truly do *not* intend *any* harm," says... someone. A *Briton*, by the accent, and the voice itself is coming from a deeper patch of shadows in the northwest corner of the room. 

Laurent doesn't *know* this sort of magery -- not from Treville, or Amina, *or* Amina's guardians. He doesn't know if he can trust his *senses*, which are now telling him that the shadows are *full*, and that there is smoke, metal, excellent perfume -- 

He snorts air out of his nose -- 

Growls lower -- 

"I... am not *entirely* certain how much it would help to let you know that I am, in fact, Jason Blood --" 

Laurent blinks -- 

"-- and that I was trying to make my advent into your home *less* disturbing than such things usually are --" 

"Why didn't," Laurent says -- *chews* out -- "you use. Front *door*." 

"I suppose I... hm. Hm." 

There is silence for long moments after that. 

The fire crackles and pops. 

The shadows stretch and reach beyond -- far beyond -- where they should reasonably go. 

Laurent raises his -- significantly bushier than normal -- eyebrows at them. 

And Blood... coughs. From behind the writhing mass of shadows. "Ah..." 

Laurent raises his eyebrows higher. 

"Well... hm. I suppose... I suppose the answer to that question is..." 

"You have. My attention," Laurent says, foam dripping to the rugs. 

"The answer is that I am, occasionally, an *exceedingly* dim-witted pillock. I *promise* that I try to keep that sort of thing to a minimum --" 

"Do you." 

"Yes," Blood says, low and serious and with... far less of a *pronounced* British accent, as opposed to an accent that defies immediate placement. 

That bears thought -- and thought of the sort which can't be done with Laurent half-shifted. He *pulls* himself back into human-form -- 

Rolls his head on his neck -- 

*Straightens* his uniform -- "Ser Jason. Are you capable of entering this space without further... disturbance?"

"That rather depends on -- ah. No, never mind. I *can*, yes. It will simply appear, to you, as though I'm walking out of a... darker patch of air." 

That raises questions, but -- "Then do so, please." 

"As you say," Blood says, and... steps through. 

As he'd said, it looks like nothing so much as a compact, broad-shouldered man stepping casually out of smudged nothingness and *into* Laurent's study. It doesn't even look as though he'd stepped out of the *shadows*, and -- hm. "Would you tell me..." 

"I am at your disposal, Captain," Blood says, and folds his hands in front of him. He looks infinitely more patient than Marie-Angelique when he does this, and *that* -- 

Laurent smiles wryly. "I suppose that I would like to start my questions there, then," he says, and gestures Blood to the chairs by the fire. 

"Yes? And thank you," he says, and moves to sit. 

"Yes," Laurent says. "Wine?" 

"Please. With a significant amount of water if you keep the same vintages in your cellar that the *Trevilles* do." 

Laurent hums despite himself as he pours for them both. "We are French, Ser Jason. Some things are born in the... blood." 

Blood snorts. "And thank you for that. But you wanted to ask...?" 

Laurent gives Blood his wine, then sits down in the opposite chair with his own. He considers a formal posture, but --

His mind fills with Marie-Angelique's -- and Amina's -- *most* lambent glares. 

He spreads his knees and rests his elbows on them, instead, opening his *self* deliberately -- 

Blood's smile is *obviously* surprised -- but he responds in kind, relaxing into his chair, crossing his legs loosely, and raising an eyebrow. 

"Thank you for that, Ser Jason. I imagine you know precisely how *awkward* I feel tonight." 

"You've been placed -- by *me* -- in an immensely awkward situation. If it helps, at all, I truly *do* wish to make this easier for you --" 

"Why is that. Precisely. And -- that *is* where I wish to begin." 

Blood hums and toasts Laurent with his wine before sipping. "There are multiple -- entirely true -- answers to that question. Would you like all of them, or only the most *serious* ones?" 

Laurent considers that for a moment -- no. "As you come to know me, Ser Jason, you will realize that I spend my days -- and nights -- in a welter of frustration because vanishingly few people in this world are as... completist as I wish to be at *all* times." 

Blood grins. "Very well. One: Your pack -- all of you -- are now werewolves. *Many* of the best relationships of my life have *been* with werewolves and other shifters, both on this sphere and others. When I happen to come across shifters who show the *slightest* inclination toward being willing to spend time with me? I rather put my back into things. 

"It might not work out, at all, but... the odds have been in my favour, Captain. That is rather valuable for one such as me." 

"I have more questions about that, but continue," Laurent says, and sips his own wine. 

"Of course. Two: There are a *lot* of Jason Bloods scattered across the numberless spheres. We tend to be functionally immortal *and* hard to kill *and* capable of traveling *between* the spheres *and* inclined toward giving ourselves hints and tips and little tricks designed to *keep* ourselves from making quite so many of the catastrophic mistakes which littered our *youth*," Blood says, and raises an eyebrow. 

Laurent nods. "Go on." 

Blood hums. "I will always take *great* pleasure in the wildly intelligent and open-minded, which brings me to the point: Nine days ago, *one* of my others visited me with the intelligence that an earth-mage shifter by the name of Jean-Armand du Peyrer de Treville -- and any and all *surviving* members of the pack he'd built around himself -- would enjoy both me and what I could *do* for them." 

"Surviving -- but. Your... other had given you warnings about the fates of Amina and Porthos." 

"And of your Kitos, and your Reynard --" 

"Oh." 

"*And* both you and your wife Marie-Angelique." 

Laurent shudders. "I was not made privy to that information." 

"I didn't share it." 

Laurent raises an eyebrow. 

"As soon as I met your Marie-Angelique -- and asked a *few* questions -- I could see that her -- and your, and your brothers' -- fates had all been averted here. Despite the fact that the rather horrific deaths happened in all *sorts* of universes with near-metronomic regularity." 

Laurent frowns -- "Be plain." 

Blood winces. "My apologies. The conversation with Marie-Angelique -- and Amina -- made it clear that the great threat to Amina and Porthos had been summarily dealt with. *Further* conversation with them made it clear that your sisters had all but *browbeaten* the men of your pack until you had agreed to *all* become blood-bound to Amina and Treville, and thus share in their -- and the All-Mother's -- life, strength, energy, and *vitality*," Blood says, and spreads his hands. "I felt *intensely* useless." 

"You are saying... but." Laurent shudders again. "I know, perfectly well, that I would not have allowed Treville *alone* to bind all of us..." 

Blood inclines his head. 

"We would have -- left him. Oh." Laurent winces and sits up. "Please do not keep secrets like that, Ser Jason." 

Blood studies him for long moments -- 

And Laurent smiles with pain. "If nothing else... there is no one on *this* sphere who does not need, from time to time, to be shocked away from their pride, complacency, and self-satisfaction." 

"As you say. I... have another reason why I am at your disposal..." 

Laurent drinks somewhat deeply -- "Please." 

"Amina would not hear of me taking my leave after I had provided my -- late -- warnings. Marie-Angelique used all of the *steel* in her bearing... well. They *ordered* me to stay, and *teach* them ways to protect their children, themselves, their pack... 

"They asked me what I would *charge* in order to become their teacher, even though Marie-Angelique had no magic of her own, and Amina's *earth*-magery made my touch quite literally *anathemic* until we had shared *blood* --" 

"And yet you have your *best* relationships with shifters, who are, if I recall correctly, *mostly* earth-aligned...?" 

Blood toasts him. "Oh, yes, Captain. Please keep in mind that not all wonderful relationships *require* touch... and that any number of people who are, let's say, *closer* to their animal selves than to their human selves tend to find people who are less *fussy* about human mores and morals *restful*." 

Laurent nods thoughtfully -- "That makes clear, objective sense." 

"Thank you --" 

"I find that I highly doubt that *you* took quite as much satisfaction from those relationships you conducted free of touch as you would like me to believe." 

Blood opens his mouth -- 

Closes it -- 

And smiles *brightly*. "Call me Jason...?" 

Laurent hums. "Only if you cease referring to me as the Captain." 

Blood -- *Jason* -- inclines his head. "Laurent, then. Shall I continue?"

"Please," Laurent says. "Or..." 

"Mm?" 

"You *are* a teacher. More than you are other things, yes?"

If anything, Jason's smile grows even brighter. "It is my *vocation*," Jason says. "Well -- *one* of them, anyway. I spent so *much* of my early years *steeping* in ignorance that I rather need to end it *everywhere* I go. But... this tends to be difficult when the overwhelming majority of people find your presence to be *ominous* at *best*." 

Laurent considers *that*, and -- 

And he *had* been thinking that the tension within him since Jason's arrival had had more to do with the *way* Jason had arrived than with anything else, but... 

He frowns. "Would you say that your *aura* distresses others? Something else?" 

"My aura, the amount of cursed arms and armor I tend to wear for both my protection and the protection of the people who find themselves in my presence -- I know it doesn't *look* that way, but I'm armored from head to *foot* in *exceedingly* virulent mail as we speak --" 

"Ah." 

"There's also the fact that I am *thoroughly* possessed by *two* beings -- it could be reasonably said that *I'm* possessing one of *them* --" 

"Hm." 

"One of those beings is one of the eldest living children of the All-Mother, which *would* be perfectly fine -- we *are* all her children -- but most humans in this benightedly *Christian* part of the world simply cannot encompass him as anything but a demon. From literal hell. 

"I should say, I spend a great *deal* of time in what could, arguably, be known as hell-*spheres* -- hm. Are you quite all right, Laurent?" 

"You should not take the undoubtedly ferocious glare on my face personally, Jason," Laurent says, and continues to glare. Helplessly. 

"No...?" 

"No. I simply have more questions than I can easily organize into outlines and chapters -- please go on. I must apologize for the fact that I will undoubtedly need to interrogate you at *length* *again* --" 

"I look *forward* to it --" 

"Truly?" 

"Some of us *like* to hear ourselves talk, Laurent..." 

Laurent raises an eyebrow. 

Jason laughs quietly. "Some of us like to hear ourselves *talk*... to other *people*. Who want to *listen*. And who will then speak in *turn*, chasing back the horribly silent weight of *eternity*." 

Laurent stares -- 

Licks his *lips* -- 

"Perhaps you have questions for me...?"

Jason's smile is gentle. "I do." 

Laurent raises *one* eyebrow. 

"How are you?" 

"I --" 

Jason holds up a hand, licks his lips -- "How *are* you, Laurent? Your loves -- your *pack* -- are changing in dramatic ways. I *believe* I know that the women in your life have rather ringed the men in *sensitive* places and are *hauling* you all by those rings, but..." He shakes his head. "I know far too much about you, and about this pack, and about everything you all *can* be to and for and *with* each other to be willing to let anything *I* do *hurt* you all." 

"Even for the sake of companionship -- and the companionship of those who would consent to learn from you...?" 

Jason inclines his head again. "Though -- I would never claim to be an altruist. I have seen, far too often over the centuries, the sorts of things which can happen to even the most *loving* relationships when *one* person in those relationships... has a scar of purest *resentment* on their soul. 

"It is far better to live in loneliness than to be cursed *again*, Laurent." 

Laurent winces. "Your words, again, are clear and sensible." 

"Thank you." 

"And I believe I've *told* you at least some of how I am...?" 

"Mm. Change is difficult for *everyone*. I will not resent -- no, that was about to be a lie," Jason says, and laughs again. "Let me try that again." 

"Please do," Laurent says, and pours more wine for both of them. 

"Thank you again," Jason says, and drinks -- "A *part* of me is frankly champing at the *bit* to go back to the de Tréville properties and *teach* as I have been *ordered* to do. To *wait* there for Marie-Angelique to come back with your sons so that I can teach *them* -- whether or *not* you consent to it. To *help* Amina charm her husband into accepting me as *she* does -- every other Jason I've spoken with has *strongly* suggested that getting *Amina* to like me is practically the battle *won* with Treville --" 

"It truly is," Laurent says, and smiles wryly. "From the very beginning."

"I... thank you for that." 

Laurent inclines his head. "It is... one of the *many* reasons why all of us were so *punctilious* about gaining her good opinion. The fact that Treville knew and cared for -- loved -- all of us save Marie-Angelique prior to *meeting* his Amina..." Laurent shakes his head. "It was daunting. Terrifying. *Jealousy*-inducing when he would leave us -- *me* -- for her side time and time again. 

"And then, of course, I thought about how I'd treated my brothers once I'd met Marie-Angelique," Laurent says, and smiles wryly again. 

Jason laughs again. "Oh -- Laurent. Etrigan -- that would be the child of the All-Mother I share this soul with -- would like to remind *both* of us that it would *not* be a *true* mating if it didn't scatter our towers of pride and leave us kneeling and *humbled*." 

"Hmm. Perhaps... with the scales fallen from our eyes...?" And Laurent does his *level* best to look innocent -- 

Jason's expression is pained. *Terribly* pained -- 

Laurent knuckles at his moustache to fight back a laugh. "My apologies. I *am* curious about your attitudes toward... hm. I suppose I shouldn't say 'traditional' religion..." 

Jason's expression turns *rapacious* -- "Oh, you *could*, Laurent. I have any number of stone tablets I could allow you to *peruse*..." 

"I... hm." 

Jason laughs hard. "What *does* your Marie-Angelique do when you look at *her* with that mad look in your eyes?" 

"She tends to... beckon me. To private -- but that's neither here nor there --" 

Jason laughs *harder* --

And Laurent grins. "But you were saying --" 

"No gods for me, and no *religions*. Gods are vast and powerful and dangerous, and are, quite often, no larger of mind or *spirit* than the mortals who dreamed them *up*. This tends to make them rather inclined to smiting the innocent, hapless, and *unwary*. This? Tends to lead to me going to *war*." 

Laurent considers... "In your experience, gods are born -- crafted? -- from the consciousness of mortals?"

"Absolutely all of them. The best of them -- including some of the most powerful, like the All-Mother -- will *admit* to this. Though the mortals who *do* such things are not always the sorts of beings *humanity* -- *any* sort of humanity -- would find immediately comprehensible." 

Laurent considers this more deeply -- but. "Mortals who craft gods to be 'mysterious' or in any way selfish of information about themselves or the spaces they inhabit... are, in some ways, asking to be treated poorly." 

"In any number of ways not directly related *to* knowledge of the infinite, truly." 

"The creation of gods is, thus, an act which must be undertaken with exacting planning, ruthless care, precision, and, of course, *consensus*." 

"Oh, *yes*, Laurent." 

Laurent smiles wryly. "This never actually happens." 

"Of bloody *course* not." 

Laurent laughs helplessly --

Jason's grin is delighted -- 

And Laurent hums himself back to sobriety -- or close *enough* to it that he can drink his wine without choking. "Mm. And -- I believe I *know* what you're going to say about this, but -- *religions*. What about them is so terrible, given that, from my perspective, the vast majority of them conduct themselves without anything resembling the interference of *any* gods." 

"Ah, well. The gods -- most of them -- give nothing to their believers, that much is true. Their believers, however, tend to give all *sorts* of things to the *gods*. Faith is *power*, Laurent. And that power can grow dauntingly *incalculable*... so long as the believers are worshiping a being *reasonably* close to who the god was when they were created," Jason says, and smiles... sharply. 

Laurent narrows his eyes. "You are... making me think rather *queasily* of the vast differences between the Christian New Testament and Catholicism." 

Jason spreads his hands. "The *good* news is that this world's Catholics simply don't have the faithful *consensus* to create anything *else*." 

Laurent *winces* -- but. "I must say that I find your program of warring on the divine much more reasonable than I did previously." 

"Why, thank you. There is *always* room for a puissant werewolf like yourself at my side --" 

Laurent laughs *hard* again. "I would think you'd make that perfectly incredible offer to Treville. Or Amina. Or *both* of them." 

"Did you think I *wouldn't*?" Jason grins. "It's been well *enough* to be the only soldier in my army, but it would be an *egregious* lie to say that I do not miss... brotherhood," he says, and his smile almost seems to fall from his face. 

And that... Laurent nods. "Amina told us much of what happened to your *first* brotherhood." 

"I was quite surprised to hear you refer to me by the title I lost *centuries* ago after *that* --" 

Laurent raises a hand. "We are Musketeers, Jason. We are -- many of us -- people who have turned our backs on who and *what* we were before in order to build something new. To build something better, and brighter -- and filled, in every way, with the honour which had been denied to us for one reason or several. 

"The choices we made in the pasts we left behind are not the choices we would make now -- even assuming we were *capable* of making those choices --" 

"And is the past dead, Laurent?" 

"I believe, in many ways, that even the dead themselves are not *truly* dead. Not until everyone who has known them, and everyone who has known *of* them, has passed from the knowledge of everyone *else*." 

"And... that will never happen," Jason says, and swallows. 

"No, it will *not*," Laurent says. "And there is no need for magic or immortality to make that so. It..." Laurent shakes his head once. "The past is never dead, Jason. But I submit to you that *we* are alive, and so is the world in *which* we live. We must choose to experience it that way -- to *feel* it with all of ourselves. We must choose to *take* the chances we've been given --" 

"And make the most of them... mm. Yes, I agree wholeheartedly," Jason says, smiling again and pulling a blade from... somewhere. 

Laurent blinks -- and *then* remembers the small, strange, and *neat* scar on Marie-Angelique's forearm. "This... is how you allow yourself *true* companionship." 

"*Again*, I must speak for the companionship one can find without *fondling* others at all times --" 

"Jason." 

"It's only that I feel you are speaking *volumes* about your desire to lay hands upon the world --" 

"I truly am. But...?" 

Jason hums. "A small taste of your blood, yes. My saliva in the wound will share my curses with you. You'll feel *much* less tense around me --" 

"Oh --" 

"And we'll be able to touch without you getting the crawling *horrors*." 

"Hm. Perhaps *I* should do the cutting...?" 

Jason makes a moue. "You know, Laurent. Marie-Angelique hardly flinched, at *all*..." 

Laurent laughs helplessly, rolling up his sleeves. "And you, perhaps, have developed something of a fixation for *wounding* the people you would have in your life." 

"A small one, *only* -- oh, just *look* at those lovely *veins* --" 

"Jason." 

Jason winks -- "I'll behave. But... there is where you wish the scar?" 

"It's practical. I'm hardly ever in the field these days, but I still must think of how I will heal." 

"Oh, yes. Though... I should say that I will heal *this* scar perfectly as soon as I'm done." 

"*Truly* -- though, of course, Treville was able to do just that when he bit me," Laurent says, and spares a thought to remember the heat of that moment -- 

The needy *fire* of possession, connection -- to something greater.

To brotherhood. 

And now... he will have that again, with a man centuries older than all of them, infinitely more experienced and *knowledgeable*, and entirely worthwhile, by every measure Laurent's mind can make. It -- 

There are so many *questions* within him, but all of them are based in having more with Jason, more time, more privacy, more *intimacy* -- 

And there is one way to get that. 

Laurent sets the wine down and offers Jason his arm -- 

Watches Jason study his eyes as if he covets Laurent's thoughts as much as Laurent covets his *own* -- 

"Jason... now. Please." 

The slash is quick, neat, and small -- 

Jason *licks* his blade -- and tucks it into nothingness before reaching for Laurent's arm -- 

Laurent sees that he'd put a preservation spell on the cut -- 

"Laurent, in all seriousness... this *will* be terribly unpleasant for you for *several* seconds." 

"And then it will not be," he says, and raises a pointed eyebrow. 

Jason hums. "As you *say*," he says, gripping Laurent's arm to either side of the slash *firmly* -- 

Laurent *pants* -- 

Inhales sharply and makes a low and *helpless* noise -- 

And then he isn't *certain* what he's doing, or what *Jason* is doing other than touching him, touching him terribly, making everything hot, crawling, *shifting* -- 

Wrong -- 

Wrong -- and. No. He is being licked, tasted where his flesh stings with mild pain -- 

He is being gently *kissed*, and that...

Urges an entirely different low sound from his throat. 

Laurent reaches with his free hand and... cups Jason's head. 

Strokes his hair once -- 

Again --

Jason *kisses* him again, softly and gently, and Laurent feels himself catch up to himself, quick and hard. 

"Jason." 

Jason laughs softly... and *then* looks up. "We must take the chances we've been given..." 

"And make the *most* of them, but --" 

Jason licks his lips and -- *shivers*. "You must never -- mm. I recognize, with all of myself, when certain things must be negotiated. I will not press my suit inappropriately. But... know that I desire every adult in this pack whom I have met, as well as all the adults I've been able to... observe." 

"All of us." 

Another shiver -- "All of you. I..." Jason winces and sits *back*. "Please... forgive me. I promise I am not usually so --" 

"Honest...?" 

Jason blinks -- "Laurent --" 

"I will always prefer honesty from you -- and from everyone else I love the most," Laurent says, and raises an eyebrow. 

Jason growls then, and it seems to come from every shadow in the room -- 

Every shadow in the *house* -- 

And then it cuts off sharply -- "I -- apologize." 

"Don't, please. That was fascinating," Laurent says, and pours more wine for both of them. "Perhaps you will tell me more about it while we wait for Marie-Angelique to be ready for... dinner." 

Jason gazes at him *wonderingly* -- 

Laurent's heart *pounds* as he gazes into Jason's *eyes* -- 

And, after a moment, Jason smiles softly again. "I suppose I *should* describe at least a few of the *other* curses on me..." 

"Hm." 

~


End file.
